Kittens
Date: 2024-09-03T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Cats

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Title: Kittens

A family chronicle

Author: Svend Fleuron

Author of introduction, etc.: Carl Van Vechten

Translator: David Pritchard

Release date: September 3, 2024 [eBook #74356]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc, 1922

Credits: Susan E., Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KITTENS ***

KITTENS

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

GRIM: The Story
of a Pike

Illustrated by Dorothy P. Lathrop

“Will surely become an animal classic in the same class as Black Beauty, the Jungle Books and the stories of Ernest Thompson Seton.”

—The Baltimore Sun.

“Grim is delightful.”

—New York Globe.

$2.00 net at all bookshops

NEW YORK: ALFRED A. KNOPF

Kittens: A Family Chronicle

Translated from the Danish of

Svend Fleuron
by David Pritchard

Foreword by Carl Van Vechten

New York Mcmxxii

Alfred · A · Knopf

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY SVEND FLEURON

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc.

Published, January, 1922

Original Title: Killingerne: en Familiekrenike

Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y.
Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y.
Bound by the H. Wolff Estate, New York, N. Y.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

“The other farm cats’ kittens were born in barn and loft and were drowned litter after litter—but she would see that her kittens grew to be cats!”

CONTENTS

Foreword by Carl Van Vechten, 13

CHAPTER ONE

Grey Puss, 21
The Willow Stumps, 23
The Kittens, 25
Grey Puss and her Past, 28

CHAPTER TWO

The Blind See, 35
The Father, 38
The Piebald Devil, 44
The Rescue of Tiny, 50
The Flight from the Willow, 55

CHAPTER THREE

The Burial-mound, 57
Life in the Burial-mound, 61
The First Mouse, 64
The Thief, 67
Drown the Brute, 71
A Great Reception, 76

CHAPTER FOUR

The Trickster, 81
The Lid of the Well, 88
The Dragon-fly, 95
The Old Crow, 97

CHAPTER FIVE

Big-kitten, 100
The Conqueror, 104
Black-kitten, 108
Miauw-miauw, 111
Grey-kitten, 116

CHAPTER SIX

White-kitten, 122
Tiny, 124
Red-kitten, 128
The Great Eating-house, 134

CHAPTER SEVEN

Box, 139
Cats of All Colours, 142
The Life-saving Chair, 148
The Crow Again, 152

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Kittens go out Hunting, 158
The Attack on the Crow’s Nest, 163

CHAPTER NINE

The Canary, 174
Box and the Red Communist, 177
The Smoke-dog, 181

CHAPTER TEN

The Best Cat, 186
“Madness” and the Owl, 190
The Hanger-on, 193
Grey on the Warpath, 196
The Thief-cat, 199
White-kitten and the Calf, 201

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Kittens Hunt by Night, 205
The Death of Box, 208
Home-sickness, 211

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Demon Mouser, 213
Exit Red, 217
Big-kitten turns Wild Cat, 220
The Home of the Fisherman, 223
Black Joins the Army, 229
“Terror” turns House-cat, 236

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Grey Puss’ Future, 242

KITTENS

FOREWORD

Those who have been content to regard the cat merely, æsthetically, as a household ornament, economically, as a mouse-killer, or fantastically, as an adjunct of witchcraft, will doubtless read this book with some surprise. For Svend Fleuron has imagined (or observed) a cat more or less cut off from relationship with men, bringing up her kittens in the fields, against all the odds that any wild animal, surrounded by the destructive terrors of nature, has to face. If this novel were a true picture of human life, it would show, relentlessly and bitterly, how nature overcame the mother and her children. As, however, it is a picture of cat life, the end is a happy one. Grey Puss is successful in the struggle and so are all her kittens. “The other farm cats’ kittens were born in barn and loft and were drowned litter after litter—but she would see that her kittens grew to be cats.”

In spite of the complete veracity of this chronicle, I can realize the shock which the book offers to those uninformed or insensitive persons who persist in regarding the cat as a soft plaything or a decorative coward, for, without a touch of sentimentality, Fleuron has very strikingly portrayed the courage, the resourcefulness, the patience, and the independence of Grey Puss and her multicoloured brood. They are forced to battle for their food, to compete with the crow and the owl, to fight the fox; they are maltreated by the farmhands and pursued by the dog, Box; even their father makes a frustrated attempt to eat them; but they emerge triumphantly and each kitten, in his own manner, succeeds in making his way in the world. It is well to remember that the picture is not extraordinary or the case abnormal. Eighty out of every hundred cats, who grow up, make their way valiantly under similar disheartening circumstances.

Just as certain tame cats sometimes have decided to leave the hearth for the adventures of wild life, so Grey Puss, who had once been a children’s pet, occasionally, in spite of rebuffs and the remembered treachery of man, hankers after domesticity, the milk-pail, the kitchen stove, and the soft warm hay in the barn. Several of her kittens, Grey, White, and Tiny, inherit this vague longing and eventually settle down in human habitations, but human beings, on the whole, play small and entirely inferior rôles in this fine novel. They seldom step across its pages and when they do appear, we see, with Grey Puss, only their feet and their legs as high as the knee. Box, the dog, a more important character in this essentially feline drama, is painted as a good-hearted, blundering brute, always in trouble, punished for following his instincts, and finally meeting his end in an aquatic encounter with the mother heroine.

The cat as wild animal has been treated in fiction before, notably by Mary E. Wilkins in The Cat, by Charles G. D. Roberts in How a Cat Played Robinson Crusoe, and by F. St. Mars in Pharaoh. These, however, are short stories with a single hero. Fleuron has employed a broader canvas. His sub-title, A Family Chronicle, explains his scheme. He is writing the story of a family. It would have been easy to confuse kitten with kitten. Lesser writers in writing about cats have readily fallen into this error. Fleuron, however, paints distinct portraits of each separate puss. Each of these kittens differs from the others not alone in appearance but also in character and each is confronted with the rewards and punishments of his own vices and virtues. They emerge at the end of the book as rounded and recognizable and memorable as any of the characters in The Way of All Flesh. Striped Big, “thick-set and sturdy, with short tail, strong legs, and a back which merged smoothly into a plump round stomach; big attentive eyes with intelligence and intensity in their glance; small ears never at rest ... the master-hunter of the litter,” who becomes a wild cat in a deer park; Black, the quarrelsome, who “returned snarl and spit for kind word—and he never hit softly on the nose but scratched so that it hurt,” who battles with crows and rats, and ends his days in the barracks among the soldiers; Tiny, the weather-prophet, a timorous hanger-on, who becomes the pet of a midwife; Grey, “with her quiet, thoughtful nature, who ponders carefully every step she takes,” catches fish and eventually goes to live with a fisherman; Red, juggler and hypocrite, subtle and deceitful, who wins all her triumphs by stealth; and White, a merry and friendly kitten, who makes a joke of everything; neither big nor strong, her grace and good humour serve to advance her station in life: these are Svend Fleuron’s Kittens. In the end, Grey Puss, rid, at length, of the responsibility of this particular litter, succumbs again to her prize-fighting lover, the great piebald hero, that rarety, a male tortoise-shell, wooed by the soft seduction of the dream of renewed motherhood. This, to me, is one of the most delightful episodes in the history.

Fleuron’s method is realistic and dramatic. He devotes comparatively little space to descriptions of his characters; he tells us what they do and feel and they do and feel nothing that it is impossible to imagine cats doing and feeling. Human characteristics are not ascribed to them. The philosophy inherent in the book is cat philosophy rather than the author’s. All this would avail nothing, were it not obvious to any one who reads a very few pages that Fleuron has observed the animal very closely and sympathetically. Sentimentality is entirely lacking from this book, as it should be, but sympathy, we may be sure, is never very far away.

This novel, I like to believe, will please W. H. Hudson, who, abhorring the idea of “pets,” enjoys watching an animal living its own life, unrestrained. Grey Puss and her kittens forge their own destinies, create their own careers, restricted only by their respective characters and their environment. Their lives are not regulated by owners or masters. No more, it is well to remember, are those of pet cats (The Monsieur Sidi of Côte-Darly has said truly, Nous sommes des êtres libres, même dans l’esclavage), but a house-cat is accorded a certain protection which, perhaps, softens his real nature. This, then, marks the great distinction between Kittens and such a cat biography as Pierre Lôti’s Vies de Deux Chattes, in which the writer very beautifully sets down an account of the lives of two of his cats: those were Lôti’s cats and in his book he describes, for the greater part, their relations with him. Grey Puss and her kittens are observed in their relations with nature. Their relations with man are recorded from their point of view rather than his. This is the new note in this very authentic cat story, authentic, at least, within the limitations the author has set himself. In much of the previous fiction involving the cat, puss has been handled quite in the manner of a Ouida duchess; Kittens is the feline Esther Waters.

Carl Van Vechten.

New York.
September 27, 1921.

CHAPTER ONE

GREY PUSS

The May moon is still shining white and round in the sky; but eastward beyond the hills, silhouetting a farmhouse roof, the first faint light of dawn tinges the distant horizon.... Along a hedge leading from the farm a house-cat comes creeping. At intervals it stops and casts a watchful glance behind ... then hurries on again.

The advancing day slowly spreads its wakening touch over the land. In the zenith the sky is already blue, and the stars are going to rest; but all human talk and noise is still buried in the feather-beds of the farm ... only a mighty vibrating chorus of invisible larks fills the air.

The animal is apparently quite an ordinary cat. Its small round head rests on a thick, shapely neck; the legs are short, the tail round and smooth, and the curve of the neck graceful and harmonious.

But on the underside pussy is quite bare and naked. Her stomach is distended from breast to groin like an overfilled sack. The cat has had kittens in her time; the fact cannot be denied!

The squeak of a mouse from the shadow of the hedge brings her to an abrupt halt. Her ears spring to a point and appear all at once disproportionately large, like those of a rabbit. In shape they resemble lynx ears more than a cat’s; the only thing lacking is the tuft.

The night-mists roll slowly from the valleys, revealing the green, dew-spangled blades of the fresh spring crop. Along border and hedge the wild flowers begin to clothe themselves in the sun’s variegated hues. The colours, too, in the cat’s coat begin now to be visible.

She is mouse-grey, with black stockings and white shoes. But round her breast and sides runs—like a mark of distinction—a band of rust-red fur.

Soon Grey Puss resumes her interrupted journey from the farm; the mouse has been successfully captured and eaten. At first she had been tempted to play with it; but the bark of a dog from the direction of the farm brought other thoughts into her head. She no longer steals along—but runs....

THE WILLOW STUMPS

At the farthest end of the hedge loom three ancient willow stumps, like monster mushrooms springing from the ground.

For more than a century they have been regularly clipped, a process which has given them weirdly distorted heads. In each of their bowl-shaped tops is ample room for a couple of men.

Black ants live in the trunks beneath, and form paths up the furrowed, moss-covered bark; on the wind-dried branches and along the withered twigs the male ants assemble in swarming-time, giving the group of ancient trees an extraordinarily lifelike appearance.

But spiders spin their webs from every knot and curve, and in them ant corpses hang thickly in bunches. In one stump a redstart has built its nest; in another, which is big and full of touchwood, grow burdocks, mugworts, and nettles.

The old willow stumps are never at rest.... Hairy, yellow-speckled willow-moths wander all over them from top to root, devouring the leaves, until, later in the summer, only the stalks are left—then they spin their cocoons, and one day rise on their soft white wings to desert the stripped, maltreated larva-trees, the ground beneath carpeted with their filth.

The central stump, the one with fat, crooked stem, is hollow right down to the bottom.

Outside the entrance to the hole—a split in the top of the head—grows a large, thick gooseberry bush, which gives shelter from the wind and rain, and serves as a perfect door. Once upon a time the bush must have flown up here as a seed; now it has developed a long, thick aerial-root which runs down inside, clinging to the wooden wall until it reaches its mouldering base.

In the thorny branches a linnet has built its circular, down-lined nest—and here the bird has been sitting fearlessly for eight days and nights without caring in the least about the old grey cat, which at this very moment is squeezing its way through the narrow entrance.

THE KITTENS

A shadowy bundle at the bottom of the bole comes to life: human eyes would have taken it for a number of mouldering sausages lying among moss and touchwood.

The she-cat cautiously approaches the bundle, letting herself down backwards by the root of the gooseberry bush—at every third or fourth step uttering a low, soft miauw.

The bundle becomes conscious of her, and still half asleep, begins to move.

Now a little leg with tiny, extended claws is stretched into the air, now a sleepy, yawning head pops into sight. Then the old cat glides behind the heap and pushes herself carefully underneath.

The young ones, listening delightedly to the soft, ingratiating miauws, scent immediately the spiced milk-nipples and swarm into her embrace—with relaxed thighs she cuddles still farther beneath them. They crawl forward, fumbling blindly and seeking to get hold ... and she purrs to them contentedly a long, long lullaby.

Outside, the day rises from its cloudy bed on the horizon. The stork’s cackle resounds from the farmhouse roof; the bird, emitting a volley of notes, appears simultaneously on the top of the chimney like a small black paper silhouette. Its crackling castenets wake the farmyard cocks—and now a running fire is kept up all over the village; cock-a-doodle-do, cock-a-doodle-do. Small strips of cloud which seemed before so water-logged and grey become fleecy and reddish, while the horizon is filled like a deep dish with the dazzling shafts of the rising sun.

Above the fields trills the now visible chorus of larks, and the waking cattle greet the day with subdued grunts and bellows. Linnets fly twittering through the air, and a company of peewits flap like a black, drifting cloud across the sunlit sky. Along the grass-bordered wheel-tracks the hare comes hopping, his stomach stuffed with food, his long ears straddled wide; the fellow is courting in these days and has scarcely time for sleep. He squats down and stares at the big red bull, wondering where his little, light-footed hare-girl can have gone. The bull gets up and stretches himself lazily....

Now the edge of the sun appears behind the hills; the partridge whirrs and the wild ducks in the swamp sweep round in circles. Hedge and fence are thrown into sharp relief, and thin, crooked shadows from the farm trees jump up on the white gable of the house.

The horizon is on fire! It is sunrise. The kittens down in the willow stump have all found their nipples; they lift their tiny paws with joy and stretch out their little claws; they cling greedily to the old she-cat’s body and nestle warmly in the shelter of her loins.

Big, the largest, now places a forepaw on either side of his milk-spring, and pushes and pulls with all his strength, while with distended nostrils he sucks and squeezes until he gasps for breath and the milk gurgles in his throat.

Occasionally one of the kittens, its tiny tongue licking its small, pointed muzzle, thrusts up a red nose for a breathing-space.

No mercy is shown! Another kitten at once seizes the still running nipple—the poor, greedy one, occupied for the moment in coughing, must be content temporarily to stand aside.

The happy little mother lies purring with delight over her maternal duties—and at intervals, when one of her little blind children utters a tiny miauw, she miauws back tenderly and consolingly.

Old Grey Puss has the sweetest cat-face possible. The chin and lower lip are white, as is also the upper lip with its shining whiskers. But above the slightly mahogany-coloured snout she seems almost to be wearing a mask. It is dead black—and gives a veiled, deceitful look to the gleaming, golden-yellow eyes.

GREY PUSS AND HER PAST

She had been the children’s kitten; had been petted and played with and had free run of the living-rooms. She could never forget those wonderful days—and the room there—just the other side of the threshold, where no hen or cock, cow or horse, not even Box himself, ever set foot—where only “humans” came. Old as she was, it still lingered in her memory.

Often during the chill of spring or the frost of winter she would see it hovering above her, dreamlike, with its endless bowls of milk and its everlasting summer.

The days of luxury had lasted little more than a month; after that the command was “Get out!” And with boot and broomstick she was ruthlessly expelled.

“Grey Puss is such a thief!” complained the housewife.... “She is always after the meat and cream on the kitchen table. Grey Puss steals ... we can’t have her in the house!”

What did she know about human laws? What were meat and cream meant for if not for a cat?... She took what she could; it was her nature.

After being expelled from the house she began to avoid people; soon the habit became second nature. From the house she was chased to the farmyard, from the farmyard to the cow-stall.... The smoke from the chimney was now the only thing in sight to remind her of her childhood’s luxury.

She was often to be found of a summer morning basking in the sun outside the stall. Together with the other she-cats of the farm she lay here giving suck to a motherless kitten. They shared the child between them, and fed it alternately, listening the while for the return of the milk-cart from the fields.

Now they hear it in the distance—yes, that is old Whitefoot’s trot! And soon afterwards it rattles and bumps into the yard. All the cats’ tails rise straight in the air like trees; their legs grow quite stiff—the great event of the day is at hand.

The cart has barely stopped before they are up in it; they must immediately sniff the odour of the sweet, fresh milk.

The foreman of the dairy gives them a little in a bowl to share among them....

But the bowl is soon licked dry—and now they are on the lookout to get whatever they can.

The moment the dairyman puts aside an empty pail, a cat pops in like a flash, head first, and licks it clean to the last drop; they leap up and hang by their forepaws to the dripping milk-sieve; they do anything and everything to secure a taste of the delicious milk.

They all allow the foreman to lift them up by the tail; they only straddle their legs....

“Puss, puss!” cries the good fellow affectionately as he raises them; and adds to a wondering onlooker, “They know I won’t hurt them!”

Yes, so shamelessly did they soil themselves with milk, that afterwards they spent hours and hours washing each other clean and dry.

She felt now so utterly out of touch with all that,—that she could have been a party to such goings on! To permit herself to be lifted up by the tail—and then, actually, to wash another cat’s kitten!

She still went regularly to the farm, usually in the early morning or the late evening. But she never ventured out into the open yard, and was in general very shy of showing herself. She preferred to stand up in the hayloft and peep through the trap-door into the stall; but the moment she caught a glimpse of a “human” she vanished instantly.

Whenever one of the farm hands came up to fetch hay or straw for the cows and caught her unawares, she would hiss at him. Nevertheless, the foreman, who was fond of cats, always put a little milk in the loft for her; it remained invariably untouched during the day, but at night it was drunk up.

“Hanged if I know what is the matter with Grey Puss!” he often muttered to himself. “I wonder if Box has been chasing her ... she’s so scared; she’s more like a wild cat, the little fool!”

Yes, wild she had been for a long time! From the cow-stall she retreated to the loft, where she learned to hide among the beams and rafters. She got into the habit of climbing trees, walking up and down thatched roofs, and sleeping behind chimney-stacks.

And as time went on she became more and more peculiar....

She was not like the other farm cats, who let their children be drowned litter after litter, without doing anything more heroic than miauw over their corpses. No, she allowed that to happen once, after which she understood that she had hidden her kittens badly! Of course they could not be expected to escape by themselves!

The next time she had young she hid them deep down under a heap of straw; but the foreman’s small boys, who always played in the loft, heard their squealing and fished them out—and then they were murdered. One only was left, overlooked in the straw.

Most other she-cats would have been grateful for the survivor and forgotten the rest. But she did not forget; she went about seeking and seeking, miauwing and complaining incessantly. Finally she took the one kitten in her mouth and carried it away to an empty dovecote in a deserted labourer’s cottage. Here it grew up without seeing a single “human.” Until one fine morning it was killed by Box....

Now, this spring, when she is once more to have kittens, she hides inside the old hollow willow out here in the fields.

No living soul shall find her young this time!

CHAPTER TWO

THE BLIND SEE

In addition to Big, who was striped, there were five other kittens in the litter: a black, a white, a grey, and a red—besides an indescribable little production about the size of a man’s thumb, with fur whose colouring resembled patches of all the others put together.

Tiny lay always half smothered under the heap of kittens, and had to be content with the worst nipple, which, although nearest the mother’s heart, nevertheless flowed weakly. That he had not long ago been crushed to death by the others must remain an insoluble mystery!

The little, blind creatures were just developing their sight. The faint, subdued light here inside the willow stump made this trying period unusually agreeable. Even when the sun was shining strongly outside they could lie staring about them without discomfort. Each of the tiny eyes was covered with a curious bluish film, through the damp, glazed surface of which the slanting pupils began to push their way. The eyes appeared extraordinarily large in comparison with the head, and gave the impression that the kittens were in a state of perpetual surprise.

On the whole, the babies had grown. True, their coats were not quite in order, for the fur still stuck out patchily all over their bodies; but the hair was there right enough, and the colours too ... the white was as white as day, and the black as black as night; even the cross stripes on the grey kitten showed up plainly.

Their hindquarters alone remained noticeably undeveloped; they were still quite conical and stunted, and jerked up stiffly and clumsily with every movement of the body. It would be a long time before that part attained perfection.

The imps were still far from being active and graceful! They reeled and rolled as they crawled over the lumps of touchwood; they could not jump at all, indeed they could scarcely walk. It seemed as if, once having acquired eyes, they had neglected everything else. They used them incessantly ... and were never tired of looking and looking!

They had no opportunity to gormandize. They drank greedily, and soon sucked old Grey Puss dry. Then she shook them off and closed the milk-spring. This she effected by rolling herself into a ball and pressing her forepaws tightly to her breasts—and however much the little ones exerted themselves to widen the opening with their snouts so as to get inside and continue drinking, they never succeeded.

Then they had revenge by clambering up and nestling on her back and neck; where they lay licking their chops.

This sort of thing didn’t upset her in the least. In fact, she was delighted at being mauled about by her offspring; she stretched herself at full length, purring and humming the while—she knew now that they had settled down for a while.

Occasionally she blinked her tight-shut eyelids, twisted her head round, and fastened her keen, brassy orbs on the long row of funny little patches of colour on her back. There was every imaginable feline colour-scheme there, and she studied each one separately, noticing any peculiarity of colouring or divergence from type....

Extraordinary.... It seemed to her that she had seen all these little fellows before!

THE FATHER

One afternoon very early in spring a small, snow-white he-cat came strolling carelessly along the road. His ears were thrust forward, betraying his interest in something ahead: he meant to take a walk round the farm, whither the road led ... there was a grey puss there who attracted him!

He ought to have been more cautious, the little white dwarf! A giant cat, a coloured rival, with the demon of passion seething in his blood and hate flaming from his eyes, caught sight of the hare-brained fellow from afar off and straight-way guessed his errand.

With rigid legs, lowered head, and loins held high, he comes rushing from behind ... runs noiselessly over the soft grass at the side of the road and overhauls the other unperceived.

With one spring he plants all his foreclaws deep in the flesh of the smaller cat, who utters a loud wail and collapses on the ground.

The big one maintains his grip on his defeated foe’s shoulder, crushing him ruthlessly in the dust. Then he presses back his torn ears, giving an even more hateful expression to the evil eyes, and lowering his muzzle, gloatingly he howls his song of victory straight into his fallen rival’s face.

For a good quarter of an hour he continues to martyr his victim, who is too terrified to move a muscle; he tears the last shred of self-respect and honour from the coward—then releases him and stalks before him to the farm, without deigning to throw him another glance. He was too despicable a rival, the little white mongrel! The big, spotted he-cat considered it beneath his dignity even to thrash him.

But the little grey puss had other suitors still.... There was the squire’s ginger cat and the bailiff’s wicked old black one; so that both daring and cunning were necessary if one’s courtship was to be a success. At sunset they invaded the farm from every direction, stealing silently through corn or kitchen garden until they reached the garden path by the hedge.

The black ruffian, who considered himself the favourite suitor, arrived, as he imagined, first at the rendezvous. But simultaneously his ginger rival stuck his head through the hedge bordering the path. At sight of each other both halted abruptly, thrusting up their backs and blowing out their scarred, battle-torn cheeks.

For many minutes the two ugly fellows stood glaring silently at one another.... Then their whiskers bristled, their tattered ears disappeared, and their eyes became mere slits in their heads; hymns of hate wailed from their throats, and their tails writhed and squirmed like newly-flayed eels.

Suddenly the big, spotted cat appears in the garden. Tiger-like, with body almost brushing the ground, he glides silently past them.

They hate him, the low brute!... He is their common enemy! The sight of him caught in the act makes them allies in a flash.... They tear after him and surround him. Then they go for him tooth and nail.

All thoughts of the fair one have gone from their minds. War-cries cease; gasps and grunts of exertion punctuate the struggle; chests heave and ribs dilate with compressed air; whilst naked claws are plunged into skin and flesh. They are one to look at, one circular mass, as they whirl round inextricably interlocked, puffing their reeking breath into one another’s faces.

The spotted devil’s powerful hind legs are wedged in under the red cat’s body. With his forepaws he grips him as if in a vice—and now thrusting the needle-pointed, razor-edged horn daggers from their sheaths, he straightens his hind legs simultaneously to a terrible, resistless, lacerating lunge....

With a stifled hiss of fury the squire’s cat falls back. It limps moaning from the battlefield, with blood pouring from its stomach.

Now comes the old black thief’s turn! First the hair flies ... it literally steams from the two rivals as they rush at each other. Their incredible activity is expressed in every movement.... After lying interlocked for some time on the ground they suddenly break away, and, as if by witchcraft, stand on all fours again.

The piebald is winning!

His claws comb like steel rakes. They tear the hair from the bailiff-cat’s flanks, leaving them bare and shining. The latter often succeeds in parrying, and returns kick for kick, but his hind legs lack strength, and he cannot complete a full thrust.

Madness gleams in their eyes; they are beside themselves with frenzy; fear flies from their minds; they are exalted ... for now they are fighting!

Until a sudden scuffle advertises that the bailiff-cat has had enough. He tears himself loose and bolts for his life.

The big piebald has won. He shakes himself and rolls over, gives a couple of energetic licks to his paws, and carefully brushes his whiskers; then he hastens through the garden up to the farmyard, where a little later he is to be seen promenading the pigsty roof.

With alert expression and nervously vibrating tail he looks inquiringly at all trap-doors and open windows. Suddenly he gives a start; there is Grey Puss on the manure-heap beneath him.

Without a moment’s hesitation he leaps down.... It was the decisive meeting!

She had always been true to this one lover.... And yet there had been times when all the gentlemen of the neighbourhood had paid court to her. Often she had reclined on the planking with one in front of her, one behind, and three or four in the elder tree above her head.... She had been literally besieged.

But however many suitors might appear—even though they came right up from the seacoast and the fishing village—she still loved him and him alone, the great piebald hero!

He was an exceptional cat: the ears, far apart and noticeably short, were set far back on the broad head; the neck was thick and powerful, the body long and heavy. When he ran, he moved with such swiftness that he seemed to glide, and he could leap two yards without effort.

He was all possible colours—black, red, yellow, and white. A tinge of green shone in the wicked golden eyes; they sat deep in his head, so that his cheeks stuck out each side like dumplings.... And in the middle of his bristly moustache protruded a small lacerated nose, which was always bright red and covered with half-healed wounds. He was always at war....

Once he received a deep, horrid bite just under the throat, where he could not lick it. So he went to his sweetheart; she helped him....

She was faithful and true to him ... but she did not trust him beyond the threshold.

THE PIEBALD DEVIL

Had she reason to doubt him? He was chock-full of lust and vice, and great in merit as in fault; nevertheless—had she actual proof for doubting him?

One night her eyes were opened in the most sinister manner. The last rays of the setting sun had departed from the fields, leaving them wrapped in the summer evening’s mist and obscurity. Only some horses greeted the solitary nocturnal marauder with warm, friendly neighing.

They knew him well, although he was only a cat, whose many-coloured body seemed grey, like all other cats, in the twilight. In doorway, at the pump, in yard, and in stable he was their daily companion. How nice to see him here on the meadow too! “Ehehehe,” they neighed ... welcome to the tethering-ground!

He ignored them completely, neither breaking his stride, nor wagging his tail, nor giving a single miauw. Past nuisances like foals which greeted him boisterously he went unresponsive and bored. He was out hunting now—nothing else mattered!

With gliding step he passes from clover field to seed ground, jumping with noiseless, tense spring over brook and ditch. His progress roused the lark from heavy slumber.

He reaches a copse—and soon afterward is heard the death-shriek of a captured blackbird. With covetous grasp he seizes his victim, buries his sharp teeth in its breast, and sucks with long sniffs the warm, odorous bird-smell....

It was not hunger which drove him to the crime: he has just made a full meal off a couple of fat mice. But when coming unexpectedly upon the bird in the copse, he could not control his murderous impulse.

He sits with the booty in his jaws, purring contentedly, and ponders frowningly where he shall conceal his capture.

The summer moon shines big and round from the pale blue, starless sky—and white, pink-underlined layers of cloud hover like feathers far out on the horizon. Warm puffs of wind come and go, enveloping him in the meadow’s silver mist, making the dim shelter of the hedge seem hot and oppressive.

His eyes fall on the three ancient willow stumps at the far end of the field! He, too, knows how rotten and hollow they are, and how well adapted for a hiding-place. True, it is rather a long way there ... through the soaking wet rye—but that can’t be helped!

The night is absolutely silent, broken only by the rasping song of the little reed-warbler from a swampy hole among the rye. The din of the farm has long since died down; not even the bark of a dog is heard, and neither water-pump nor wind-motor can summon up another note. How splendid to have ears, to be able to listen! Now he hears only the play of the grasshoppers, the love-song of the cock-chafer, and the high-pitched music of the ant-hills.

Here, behind a knotted root at the base of the largest of the old willow trees, he conceals the blackbird, afterwards covering it carefully with earth and moss. Then he reaches his forepaws up to the trunk to stretch his limbs and sharpen his claws.

He gives a violent start! The scarred, rugged skin on his head wrinkles thoughtfully, as it always does when something attracts his attention. His multicoloured tail jerks uneasily, as he peers about him with uplifted ears.

The subdued rustling and squeaking noises from inside the tree trunk continue....

Now there is no longer room for doubt....

With a giant leap he springs up the tree, and next moment he is down in the bole.

Grey Puss is not at home....

The little kittens swarm up to him. Tiny seeks to drink, while Black and Big make a joyful assault on his swiftly wagging tail. He lowers his nose to each of the little fellows in turn as if tasting their smell. Then, as if suddenly gone mad, he begins clawing about in all directions at the defenceless kittens. Mewing and squealing, they roll away to all sides like lumps of earth—but the he-cat’s frenzy increases.

He seizes Tiny by the mouth, fixes an eyetooth in his scruff and hurtles out of the willow with him. The little tot hangs limp and apparently lifeless in the jaw of his brutal sire; but, fortunately for him, the old cat is not hungry, and so is content with burying the kitten at the foot of the willow, by the side of the dead blackbird.

In justice to the criminal it must be stated that he has no conception of the enormity of his crime; only when he is on his way up the willow for the second time is he enlightened—and that in a most ruthless manner. Two rows of gimlet-pointed claws descend from nowhere and almost nail him to the bark.... Furious, he turns his visage ... and the next second all his old half-healed wounds are torn open again!

Grey Puss has surprised him—and recognizes him instantly. So it is he who comes wrecking her maternal happiness; yes, she thought as much! And like a vice she clings to his back, biting and scratching and tearing as he flees panic-stricken along the hedge.

Away, away, home, anywhere!

He is more afraid of Grey Puss’ mother-claws than of the raven’s beak or the blade of the reaping-machine; he has learnt to his cost that a she-cat knows not the word mercy when her swollen udders are carrying milk for her young.

He lacked a conscience, this big, piebald he-cat—and he respected nothing except his own skin! The egg of the lark, the chick of the partridge, the young of the hare, were each and all grist to his mill; he took everything he could find, catch, or steal.

On the rafter at home in the farmyard, where Grey Puss used to lie, he had been allowed free passage, until the very moment when some small bundles lay shivering on the hay in the corner. Then the fascination of his black face and shining coat seemed to vanish; she would not allow him to approach; he was not even admitted to the barn. If he just showed himself at the trap-door she would become seized with frenzy, spring up, and fly at him as if he were a dog! He had always to beat a hurried retreat!

Did she read his character; did she know that the feeling of paternal love was foreign to his nature? In any case, she took no risks; she never trusted him over the threshold....

THE RESCUE OF TINY

Grey Puss’ milk tasted sour for a whole day following the adventure; she was frightfully restless and upset. Several of the young ones had wounds and had to be licked. Time after time she ran her glance over the small, rolled-up patches of colour; greedily her eyes devoured each little furry coat; but it was with no trace of the sweetness of recollection or the joy of recognition.

Were they all there ... all? Their villain of a father she had already forgotten; not until she was giving suck did she become suddenly nervous. She felt that one of the swollen udders remained swollen, and now she nuzzled with her nose along the row. Big, Red, White, Grey ... yes, she found them all! But where was the little piebald one?...

The kittens buried their noses deep in her fur to get a good hold of the small, sprouting milk-springs. All was quiet inside the willow trunk; only now and again was heard the sucking of the eager little lips....

Yes, to be sure, she missed a colour ... missed just that one which—in spite of all—she unconsciously preferred to all the rest; that seemed made up of bits of colour from all the other colours.... Then suddenly a thin, feeble crying reached her ever-listening ears. It seemed to her to come from under the willow bole. Perhaps there was a crevice in the nursery?

Cautiously getting up, she begins to scratch a little with her forepaws in the floor; but finds no hole.

She dismisses the thought that one of the young ones is really missing, and lies down again and resumes her maternal duties. For a time all is peace, and she abandons herself completely to the pleasure of being at the mercy of her kitten flock, but again comes the faint cry for help. This time it is so heart-rending that she springs up, and then, half crouching, listens breathlessly.

“Mew, mew!” it tinkles to her from the distant depths. And now she begins to answer in anxious, encouraging tones, meanwhile pushing her snout among the young ones to count them. The tinkling from below upsets and worries her; but presently she stifles her anxiety by rolling right under the heap of kittens and congratulating herself that she has so many dear children safe and sound.

Meanwhile from his living tomb by the side of the dead blackbird, Tiny continues foghornlike, to emit at regular intervals his ceaseless signals for assistance. He has lain for a long time buried alive; but, accustomed as he is to having his brothers and sisters on top of him, the thin layer of moss and earth over him does not embarrass him particularly. Now he has recovered so much that he can not only squeal but wriggle also—a fact which serves to increase the air supply in his lungs, so that his weak cries gain momentarily in strength and resonance.

Suddenly the heap of earth is swept from him, and he hears his mother’s soft voice right in his ear. Oh, what a stream of happiness flows through him! He stretches his tiny body towards the strong, comforting miauw, and like a freezing man making for the fire, he puts his wet, earth-cold head against the mother-cat’s soft neck and feels her warm breath ripple over him.

Grey Puss’ eyes shine green and evil; they speak plainly of surprise and emotion. She begins purring angrily, so that the young ones inside the tree lift their ears anxiously and wonder, “What’s happening down there at the foot of the tree?”

Tiny’s wound is licked, and the mother prepares to return. He must be carried, of course, ... and the problem is to find a hold which will not destroy the creature. She tries to grasp him by the scruff, but here he is so sore that time after time the attempt fails. Cautiously she presses her teeth into his back and shoulder; but cannot find a hold, although he seeks instinctively to help her by stiffening his body as she lifts.

However, it must be done somehow; there is not the slightest doubt that he is to be carried up! So she opens her mouth wide and puts her jaws round his neck. Then, disregarding his lively protests, she cautiously closes her mouth.

He becomes suddenly quite quiet. She needs all her presence of mind to judge how tightly she may grip him without making it his last journey.

He hangs there in his mother’s jaws and closes his earth-clogged eyes, clutching her body tightly with his little legs. But he surrenders himself to her without complaint and without movement, bearing the pain in blind faith in her omnipotence.

In two jumps she reaches the top, slides down into the bole, and a moment later deposits him carefully on the ground among the others. A healing warmth envelops him—and, as the kittens are already satisfied, he secures an unusually large share of milk.

THE FLIGHT FROM THE WILLOW

Truly that morning the kittens had trembled in the shadow of death!

And Grey Puss always regarded the he-cat as the first betrayer, the cause of all her subsequent sorrows and misfortunes.

Only a week later a farm hand saw her as she sneaked into the willow. Putting his ear against the trunk, he heard the kittens stirring, and so, hanging his hat and coat on a branch, he ran home to the farm to fetch the dog....

Box was not to be found; and not till the midday meal did he get hold of him—and when at last the fellow returned to stamp out the “vermin,” the trunk was deserted and empty.

He explored the neighbouring fields. The dog found the scent at once and gave tongue—then deep among the corn was fought a terrific battle. The dog’s barks turned to howls, and soon afterwards Box returned as if shot from a cannon, with his tail-stump curled between his legs.

CHAPTER THREE

THE BURIAL-MOUND

She came to a mound which rose, peaceful and untrodden, in the middle of the field. On every side of it corn was growing, but the mound itself was green with grass and smothered in wild flowers: sorrel and heather grew side by side with the bright yellow calyx of the dandelion. A border of blackthorn wreathed the base of the mound, and a pair of great moss-covered boulders crowned the top.

Grey Puss sat down on one of the stones and stared out disconsolately over the landscape, whose colours were just retiring for their nightly rest.

Half unconsciously, she began to scratch among some tufts of grass and dried leaves which covered a depression in the turf; they came away very easily. She noticed how quickly she delved deeper and deeper down.

She became thoroughly interested....

She had happened upon an old, thinly-covered fox-hole, and when at last she had cleared the entrance, a narrow spiral passage lay open before her. She was accustomed to darkness; and happy at the possibility of finding a new home for her kittens, she bravely entered the opening.

After a short distance the tunnel made an abrupt turn, continued downwards in a curve over some enormous boulders—and then plunged straight into the vault.

Huge boulders with half-hewn surfaces stood as if growing from the ground. Above them were others of a similar kind, the walls continuing in an unbroken curve until they met at the top, thus forming the solid vaulted roof of the sepulchre. In the splits were wedged smaller stones, the whole making a small square chamber.

Had body-snatchers at some time desecrated this grave? Or perhaps some lawful visitor on his departure centuries before had neglected to close it properly behind him! In either case one of the corner stones was displaced; so much so that a fox had continued his burrow right into the very burial-chamber.

A gruesome place of death even for a cat to happen upon!

A weird, vicious, humming noise greeted her the moment she thrust in her nose ... a fluttering of something that was, and yet was not, surrounded her and filled her ears, nose, and mouth, making her cough and spit.

Had she been a human being she would have been horrified, and imagined it to be the ghost of the dead sounding her doom for disturbing its peace; but she was only a cat, and knew nothing of the beyond.

As she jumped down into the vault, and in so doing brushed the wall with her tail, the din about her head reached its climax: hundreds of mosquitoes and bats inhabiting the grave protested vigorously against her entrance.

She stood for a moment undecided, taking stock of her surroundings....

The floor was firm, and as hard and uneven as a threshing-floor. A hollow echo vibrated through the air at her every movement, the hissing of her breath or the grating of her claws.

Just before the sun went down, a thin ray of light filtered through a crevice in the stones opposite the tunnel. Thousands of tiny points of light, the watchful eyes of the denizens of the tomb, leaped into being.

Otherwise the shadows prevailed, and were only conquered little by little by her piercing glance. Later she distinguished fragments of bones and skulls on the ground, and saw supine toads fumbling their way along the walls.

In some inexplicable manner a heap of elm leaves had found their way into one of the corners; they crackled and shrieked “Halt!” when she trod on them, but promised, nevertheless, a warm and dry couch.

The conditions were acceptable—besides, there was no alternative! As soon, therefore, as she had remained there long enough to feel at ease, she made her decision.

Here in the old viking’s tomb she made her home. On the leaves and fragments of straw she dropped her kittens, fetching them one by one from their various hiding-places in furrows and behind stones, where she had been forced to harbour them in her headlong flight from the old willow stump.

LIFE IN THE BURIAL-MOUND

The fugitive little mother-cat had brought her kittens under cover just in time. That night a storm broke loose and thunder crashed incessantly, accompanying heavy showers of rain. Warm, heavy drops streamed down in bucketfuls; the earth drank until the crevices in its broken crust were filled to overflowing, while a slimy, bottomless fluid filled all holes in the roads.

But not a drop found its way down to this century-old sepulchre—the resting-place was too well built for that!

Towards morning the tempest died down. The June sun slowly swept the warm, bluish haze from the landscape, and poured its white shining beams over the fertile green cornfields. Strong, delicious odours, held in bondage by the mist, are suddenly released, and float through the air in small, scented clouds.

It was too wet for a cat to venture out; better wait a little and let the sun dry things a bit!

In the farthest corner, where the darkness is deepest, Grey Puss is sitting. She relaxes her muscular body completely on the leafy couch, and stretches her forepaws lazily in front of her. The entire kitten flock is lying in her lap.

Since daybreak she has had such a nice quiet time; the others have all been sleeping soundly, tumbled in a heap. But now peace is at an end; the dear children are all awake, and almost killing her in their exuberant joy.

Not even Tiny spares her, but seizes the opportunity of pursuing the exhausted milk-springs. Lying on his back, and using his hind legs as levers, he toboggans in short slides from one nipple to another. It couldn’t be true that there was not a drop left!

From the playful horde arise hissing and spitting, punctuated by occasional dull bumps as they miss their footing and tumble on the floor. All at once Grey Puss gets up from her corner, walks out into the middle, and throws herself down in the thin streak of light which fumbles its way through the roof. Look out—now she is going to play their favourite game; now they are in for a treat! They shall play “catch mouse” with the tip of her tail.

Comfortably stretched on her back with all four legs wide apart, she lies perfectly still, not moving a limb, not a hair. Presently the end-most tip of her tail begins very, very slowly to wriggle to and fro; then it falls with a firm little thump on the floor.

It is the signal for the game to begin!

Immediately the tiny, living colours surround the tail. And in turn, usually two at a time, they make their attempts.

The supple tail-end writhes and squirms at lightning speed over the floor, the kittens’ eyes following its twists and bends in fascinated silence. Suddenly it disappears from sight; there is a breathless pause ... then the furry tip slowly emerges from under the heap of leaves. They strike at it with their paws, rush at it, catch hold of it, and—if it unfortunately escapes—rush upon it again. They bite it, clutch it, shake it.... At last they have secured a firm grip. The tables are suddenly turned! Now it is the tail which grips and shakes and rocks them to and fro in the air; they are fighting with a real, live, reckless enemy of equal strength, and are permitted to experience the joy of victory.

No spitting or growling is heard; all takes place in dead silence—only the smacks of the tail and the bumps of the paws betray the presence of living beings. They are like shadows tumbling about....

The game goes on in half-hour spells—until exhaustion overtakes first one, then another, and sleep again sweeps them together into a lifeless heap.

Now Grey Puss gets up and makes for the entrance—it is her turn to play “catch mouse.”

THE FIRST MOUSE

Several weeks pass happily....

The corn round the burial-mound ripens, and all sorts of grasses compete to lengthen its luxuriant green covering. The stones on the top become more and more hidden from the field-path below.

The lark comes and trills at sunrise and midday; and in the evening the whinchat twitters its mournful song. The little, low grass mound has not yet betrayed its secret....

The kittens in its bowels are now about twice the size of moles; their bodies have become a trifle longer and more elastic, and on their short, plump hindquarters the worm-like appendages of childhood are beginning to thicken into soft, furry tails. Their eyes shine like stars, and on each of the small, bullet-shaped heads a little wrinkled snout forms a centre for a bunch of stiff, shiny whiskers. It is about time, the old cat thinks, that they begin to take solid food.

At first she brings them eggs and unfledged birds, which their baby jaws soon learn to masticate. Later on their diet becomes coarser and more varied.

Early one morning she appears with a small, greyish-brown creature in her jaws, its white stomach shining like a puddle of water reflecting the sun. Its short, little forepaws with the pink claws hang limp in surrender, and its long hind legs stick out stiffly like stilts. A thin, hairless tail dangling like a broken straw completes the picture.

The kittens at once respond to their mother’s food-signal, and, falling over one another in their eagerness, rush headlong to the entrance.

With their small behinds stiffly elevated, they rub themselves affectionately against the old cat’s legs and body; she positively disappears in a forest of tails. Purring loudly, her head erect, she remains standing before them, turning and twisting the interesting creature to give them a full view of the spoil.

At last, after what seems an endless wait, each receives his mouthful.

Big crouches on his haunches and plays delightedly with the mouse’s tail, which he holds in his paws. When, at a smack from him, it gives a jump, his eyes glow and he hops round his new toy on his hind legs. Suddenly he runs away to a corner and begins digging a hole—Grey Puss sees that he has his father’s appetite!

The first few times she herself kills the mouse with a bite, but later on the young ones are permitted to share in the fun. Soon also she allows them to play a little with the unfortunates, so that they may learn the first principles in the art of trapping. To encourage them still further to forage for themselves, she buries her victims round about the base of the burial-mound.

The struggle for food has left its mark upon the little mother-cat. She has become noticeably thinner, and her coat no longer has its glossy sheen. The crowd of rapidly growing children, who make constantly increasing demands on her skill, is telling on her strength. It is almost impossible for her to secure all the mice necessary for them—and therefore, in her dilemma, she sometimes leaves the straight path of virtue and does what second nature urges her.

THE THIEF

One day about noon she is skirmishing in the neighbourhood of the farm.

She lies hidden in the grass, her head in the air, keeping sharp look out for booty. In each of the pancake-coloured orbs lies a vivid coal-black streak which divides the pancake into two halves. Cunning and deceit stream from her eyes.

Behind the garden hedge bordering the loose, dry, potato-planted earth a farm hen clucks her thirteen chicks together. The hen has just finished an exhaustive scratching of the soil—and now is taking a simultaneous sun and sand bath, lying luxuriously with widespread wings, her plump, featherless belly fully exposed. The hen is asleep—her head, with its anæmic comb, sticks up stiffly in the air. Her eyes are fast shut.

The wind carries to Grey Puss fragments of dear, home-like sounds; but they do not, as in former times, soothe her nerves. On the contrary, they rouse and excite her with the promise of food. She creeps nearer and nearer in short bursts towards the sleeping hen. Each time she stops to listen—but hears only the chicks enjoying life: her blood races.

Is it tame, that one sitting there? She has forgotten; she no longer distinguishes between tame and wild! She distinguishes only between what is good, and what is not good, for her children to eat.

The soft, pregnant signs of June meet her eyes on every side. Between fresh green oatfields and succulent clover-carpets the rye whitens and blackens. There along the hedge by the old willows the line of cattle stretches; and down in the meadow, where calves and foals play in their pens, the long-nosed stork walks sunning himself.

The heavy-laden milk-cart drags itself through the stifling noon homeward to the farm. In front of it two red-cheeked, heavy-bosomed girls are seated; an old cow follows tottering behind.

Grey Puss’ opportunity has come—she makes a lightning spring forward....

With a resounding “cluck” the hen jumps up, puffs out her feathers and spreads wide her wings. Her anxious cry of alarm rings over the potato-field, whither she rushes feverishly to collect and protect her children. Grey Puss with a plump young cock in her jaws disappears with a mighty spring among the rye.

A quarter of an hour later she emerges from the hawthorn clump at the base of the burial-mound. The swallows are making their sweeping curves round about the top, veering and shrieking incessantly—there must be something up there to attract their attention!

The furry inhabitants of the mound, who have been lying in a group sunning themselves, see the old cat approach, dragging the great chicken after her; she holds it by the neck, its body and long, naked legs hanging limp and pitiful to either side.

Big, the glutton, at once seizes hold of a wing, and, with closed eyes, grinds and tears the soft-stemmed feathers, making a great deal of noise about it.

Big’s assault causes the chicken to swing towards him; at this, Black begins to feel nervous about his share of the spoil—with a jump he runs forward and hangs tightly to one of the legs.

With flattened ears and wide-stretched paws Black tugs with all his might. His neck is stretched forward and the front part of his body raised, but his stomach and hind legs drag along the ground. He resists strenuously and takes a firm hold—he will take care that Big doesn’t steal all the spoil; or if he does, then he must pull him along too!

Grey Puss has let go her hold of the neck and now stands with the chicken’s head in her mouth; she also will make certain of something—and she likes the head best of all.

Now the remaining kittens come forward. Grey buries her little black muzzle in the chicken’s body-feathers. Following her custom, she goes very cautiously to work, and sniffs for a long time before taking hold. But Red, who is more impetuous, digs away with her foreclaws, trying to make a hole as quickly as possible; and, having at last succeeded, she—eagerly assisted by White and Tiny—pulls out endless lengths of warm intestines.

DROWN THE BRUTE

Chicken after chicken kept vanishing from the farmyard ... mysteriously ... without trace.

The farmer’s precious racing-pigeons also disappeared, stolen, one by one, in broad daylight. Some of their feathers were found by the fence—it was there that Grey Puss lay in ambush, and fell upon the birds before they had time to rise in the air.

They kept watch for her early and late—and the farmer often did sentry duty half the day with loaded gun; he would settle her, sure enough....

But she was cunning and cautious—and the hours of vigil too long for the farmer! So they decided to set a trap.

She walked straight into it! That was not surprising, for she was completely without experience of traps.

There she was; at last they had the criminal!

“The grey she-cat! Yes, I thought as much!” shouted the farmer, swearing.... Yes, he remembered that gourmand well!

It was she who ate only the heads of rats. And once, two years ago, she had been found with a chicken in her jaws. She would have been shot there and then, had not the foreman sworn that the chicken was dead before she found it. Well, now at last they knew the truth—the beast must be drowned!

Grey Puss suspected no evil when she was taken to the scullery, which she knew so well, and released from the trap. Furthermore, thirsty and ravenous as she was, she accepted their hospitality in the form of a large bowl of milk.... They thought she should have something in reserve for her long journey.

She sat down, cat-like, with her tail curled round her behind, and in a moment of weakness allowed her former friend, the foreman, to stroke her back.

Just as she was finishing and was contentedly licking her mouth, stiff, horny fingers grabbed her and picked her up as if she had been a kitten. Other fingers opened a black abyss beneath her—and, with Box yelling and leaping round her, she was thrust quickly into a sack.

For the first time she began to suspect something wrong. She struggled violently and clutched with her claws—but down she went nevertheless.

She scratches madly at the sack.... Her twenty crescent-shaped claws stick out through the canvas in white clusters. However much they shake she won’t go to the bottom, but remains obstinately clinging half-way up the side. It dawns suddenly upon her that the humans have deceived her by their unusual kindness; now at last is confirmed what she has so often suspected, that humans, when they try, can be even more cunning than she.

All is pitch-black around her.... Her pupils contract, and her sight, which has always served her so well, now works a veritable miracle: she sees right through the canvas, sees clearly the gleam of water appear beneath her.

When they swing her to and fro, in just the same way as the wind has so often swung her in the treetop, it becomes more difficult to see; everything grows dark again.

Suddenly she is falling ... yes, she feels at once that she is falling! She clings even more frantically to the side of the sack.

But the sack is falling too! She withdraws her claws from the canvas and holds out her paws ready to land, just as she used to do in the old days when she was kicked through the trap-door in the loft. Suddenly she feels something hard and cold touch her.... She is not alone in the sack—she has a comrade!

The comrade is a brick....

The next moment she reaches the water! An ice-cold shower streams in on her, with a smell so horrible that she quite forgets to shiver. She is on the point of suffocation, and leaps up and down the sides of the sack like a fly in a bottle....

The sack is a new one. It has been sacrificed specially for her; they don’t want to see her again! But just as the canvas has hitherto defied her claws, so, to a certain degree, it defies the water; she still finds a little air to breathe, in her mad death-dance in the dark....

All the time she tears at the sack.... She is lucky, and makes an opening in the seam. She struggles through, comes to the surface, sucks in air, sees land, and paddles hurriedly to the bank.

The farm hand who was sent to drown Grey Puss obeyed the order much against his will. He had been a sailor in his younger days, and knew what a lingering torture death by drowning was.

Why were land-crabs always so keen on this way of ending life? Because mankind had a natural tendency towards cowardice and laziness, he supposed. To smash a cat’s skull or put a bullet through a dog’s brain demands an effort—besides, it was unpleasant to see the expression in the victim’s eyes! No, it was so much easier to drown the thing....

“I’ll be hanged if this isn’t the last time!” said the man shamefacedly, as he watched the sack disappear from sight; and immediately swung round on his heel and walked away.

So that no one saw the little head which pushed its way breathlessly through the green duck-weed; nor the thin, bedraggled body which a few moments later stood shaking itself dry among the weeds.

A GREAT RECEPTION

Grey Puss went straight home to her kittens, and that by the main road.

No sneaking along the ditches or crawling through the furrows, as so often before when dragging her spoil. No, to-day she came empty-handed, alas! besides being battered and breathless. She ran with all her might!

A great reception awaited her.

A whole long night and the half of a day she had been away—what a relief when she appears; thank goodness she has come back at last!

Big, the strong man of the litter, rushes ecstatically to meet her, and flings both paws round her neck, dragging her tired, wet head from side to side until he nearly kills her with joy. The other kittens run straight to her udders, each trying to drink the most milk in the shortest time.

Quite bewildered, but without further thought of her experience, Grey Puss sits down and gathers the little kittens in her arms, while Big, filled with holy zeal, begins licking her wet black and damp, bedraggled coat with his tongue.

It is true that as a rule a cat washes her kitten, but with Grey Puss things are reversed: Big makes his mother’s toilet daily—and is, moreover, so generous with his tongue that he washes all the kittens too.

And now on this occasion, when his kind mamma—besides arriving depressed and without her customary miauw-signal—has come home soaking wet, the son’s energy knows no bounds.

Unfortunately, although going over her twice, he finishes washing his mother before the children have completed their drinking operations; and so is compelled to find another outlet for his exuberance. He rushes round and round the room at full speed....

The fact of the whole family being in his path does not deter him in the least. He jumps recklessly into their midst, and “takes off” again with a long jump from his mother’s forehead.

Later, upon making the discovery that two of the little ones have become separated from the rest, he thinks at once of something new: he plays “catch mouse” with them....

In a flash he has captured Black under one paw and White under the other, and holds them pressed down ruthlessly to the ground. Black spits and bites recklessly at his captor, but the good-natured little White only cries miserably. A moment later Big gets a good box on the ears from the old cat’s paw.

He was so very robust—just like his father!

After that day Grey Puss never dared venture into the farmyard, not even by night; she considered herself banished once for all....

She became a total outcast, spitting and swearing at man’s approach. “Fiew!” she would hiss, crouching back, as if pulled from behind; and then turn and vanish in a flash.

She forgot her happy days of kittenhood and went back to nature and independence, her claws turned against every living being.

It was not an easy path she had chosen. The work of catching and killing at times entailed almost insuperable difficulties.

After all, what wild-beast attributes were needed to capture a little half-tame mouse or pigeon in a barn; to sneak in and lick up milk from the stall; to dig out bloater-heads from the manure-heap? No, now she had to begin all over again and practise the most elementary things: to creep noiselessly forward, make her spring, and disappear like lightning.

She adopted the method the retriever employs to carry small birds, and applied it to mice. As soon as the rodents were caught and killed, she arranged them in a row on the ground; and then packed them side by side in her mouth, so that only the heads and tails hung out.

One morning she took a hare home to the young ones, and, a few days later, a full-grown weasel—tangible proofs that she had learnt now to overpower and kill the most refractory opponents.

After a short time she learned even to bring down the swallow as it swept with dazzling speed over the earth.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE TRICKSTER

On the top of the mound the kittens are playing, in and out among the old tombstones.

The sun has risen. It shines in long, golden stripes on the stones and lights up the deep, gloomy sepulchre; pools of water glisten, and fields and meadows are already green-white with light.

Big sits on his haunches with a clover stem in his claws. He looks as if he is studying the flower, while at the same time he nips off the leaves one by one with his sharp little teeth. The others watch him, gaping with astonishment.

Suddenly he throws the stalk away and leaps over the heads of the others.... One of the granite stones at that moment reflects the sun and attracts his attention; he can never look at a stone without at once making a dash to reach the other side of it and hide. His disappearance is so provoking that a couple of the others cannot resist jumping up and joining in the game.

They gallop after him, and now they play hide-and-seek round the stones, until Big takes advantage of his long start and climbs into an old empty pail in an adjacent thicket. His playmates run about all over the place looking for him....

Shortly afterwards the jester’s white socks peep over the edge of the pail; a pair of yellow-grey ear-tips follow—and now springs into sight a happy, laughing cat-face!

Black’s claws begin to itch; he wants very much to play, but in his own manner. He has been up to the clover stem and smelt it carefully; he has also taken it between his paws, but thrown it away contemptuously. A plant stem, a mere flower, seems to him quite useless; a thistle, on the contrary, which pricks his nose when he smells it is much more exciting. He can at any rate get angry with it.

Suddenly he sees Red and Big engaged in an angry wrestling match, while White and Grey stalk them from opposite sides.

With a spring he is upon them; flings himself first upon White, turns her head over heels, and then falls upon Grey. In a furry, fighting ball they roll over and over down the hill....

Grey gets on top, and Black suddenly realizes that he is getting the worst of things. He at once brings his hind legs into play and claws his adversary’s stomach and nose mercilessly—in real earnest with naked claws!

Grey wails miserably, and at the sound the whole flock comes rushing forward with joyous recklessness. But Black does not wait for the assault; with doubled-up body and curved tail, he stalks sideways towards them. They expect him to jump, but instead he sticks his claws right into their eyes.

But the battle is too unequal; Black has to retreat hurriedly. He flees to the top of a small aspen, creeps out along one of its upper branches, and from there jumps into the hawthorn thicket encircling the base of the hill. He does not stop even there, but continues his flight through the thicket all the way round the hill. Every thorn that pricks him teases him and fills him with delight. He crawls from branch to branch like a great black caterpillar, while the others, who have long since forgotten all about him, go on with their game.

The rays of the morning sun sweep gleaming over the fields; the barley shines like spun silk, the oats like molten silver, while lake and pond and pit lie like mirrors. The buzzing of flies and the humming of bees rise incessantly into the hot, motionless air; above the burial mound the gnats dance in a swarm. The air is filled with sounds: the sweet trilling of the larks; the snorting of the harnessed horse from the road; the bleating of calves and the rattling of pails from the distant farm....

A halt has been called in the game; the tired kittens are resting.... Grey and Red, who had got the worst knocks, sulk together with their tails encircling their little round behinds.

Then Big Puss gets up.... The others half raise their sleepy eyelids; what on earth is he going to do now?

With the side of his paw he begins softly patting a little lump on the ground; the loose mould slides forward and the bump collapses.

At this he goes suddenly mad with excitement. Holding his forepaws stiffly in front of him, he leaps forward, like a monkey on a stick, in a series of jumps, at each plunge pushing up a little mouse-grey cushion of sand, which he simultaneously flings behind him with the backward sweep of his paws.

His brothers and sisters are now thoroughly roused; their eyes, which but a short time before were dull and bored, shine eagerly, their curled-up backs straighten out, and their paws are held stick-like in front of them, ready for the new, fascinating game.

He really is an Edison-cat, is Big Puss! There they had all been sitting bored to death, and now ... now he comes and makes grey mice spring up out of the ground and then disappear again! They must try the new game at once....

The next moment the six little splashes of colour are again rushing round like mad.... Even Black has jumped down from his branch to the ground, where he is soon busily engaged in crouching and leaping, creating and destroying the new little, maddening, earth-born mice. A splendid game for little pussy-cats!

The midday sun pours its hot breath down upon the earth; the air quivers out there above the fields as if boiling. The sand and stones are burning hot....

But the grass shines smilingly back at the sun, and the rye bursts into flower.

The kittens lift their heads as they hear a rustling in the corn: along the secret path which has gradually formed itself, Grey Puss returns home with her catch.

Not chicken for dinner to-day, but—herring! The fishmonger’s cart upset last night at the turn of the road, and dropped a box of splendid fresh herrings. Grey Puss, who had stuffed herself to bursting-point on the spot and dug down half a score besides, appears now with a couple hanging out of her mouth.

At first this new kind of food is greeted with contempt; it is cold and slimy—and doesn’t smell! But when the mother starts munching, the young ones soon follow her example, and join in the feast.

Delicious food! After the first taste each of them grabs a big lump; even Tiny, who has never taken kindly to solid diet, displays unusual eagerness. He devours not only his own share, but in addition, is foolhardy enough to covet some of Black’s.

Then, for the first time in his sheltered life, the little kitten sees the furious, grinning face, and the flattened, pressed-back ears, of an angry cat. And when, in spite of these, he continues innocently to reach in under the head, and is even lucky enough to pull out a piece of herring, down flashes a vicious forepaw, and he feels the scratch of a sharp, curved claw upon his tender nose.

Tears of pain spring to his eyes as he recoils, mewing piteously; while Black resumes his meal, emitting at intervals weird, muffled noises like threatening thunder.

THE LID OF THE WELL

As soon as the after-dinner siesta was at an end, Grey Puss, contrary to custom, called her kittens together with soft, alluring miauws, and took them for the first time along the secret, winding path she had trodden through the corn.

In the baking sunshine, while the countryside was enjoying its Sabbath-day’s rest from toil, she led them out to a large, sweet-smelling haystack. Farther they were not allowed to follow her.

She placed them in a hollow, which she made deep and roomy, at the foot of the stack. It was as if she understood that they needed to see something fresh and for a time get right away from their gloomy grave-home. They spent the afternoon lying together in the sweet yielding hay.... Presently the babies fell asleep, and Grey Puss stole away.

Oh, the luxury of lying at rest on a summer day, dozing in the soft, warm breeze as it sighs between hill and dale; to escape for once from one’s tail and the never-ceasing crawling of one’s paws; to float body and soul along a broad, shining river of light and not know a single want or care!

The whisper of the reeds from the pond, the song of the larks from the heavens, the whistle of the wild chervil stems, and the rustle of the osier leaves, unite in a hymn of peace, caressing and soothing the slumberers’ ears—until the booming of a passing bee calls them back to consciousness for two long, drowsy seconds....

“Ears—must you hear? Eyes—must you see? Nose—must you smell?”

“No, no—just rest, slumber, sleep....”

The fluff of the dandelion floats slowly past; over them chases the swift, scythe-winged swallow; while the lark’s eternal, monotonous song slowly mends the thread broken by the kittens when they fell asleep.

They wake; glide imperceptibly from the far into the near; yawn and stretch each limb; and finally open their eyes, saturated with the sweetness of that kind of repose which urges instant action.

The heat of the sun toasts them until their fur sparkles.... They get up and look at once for something to do.

Not far from the stack was a large liquid-manure well with a rotten, worm-eaten lid.

In places the lid dipped dangerously; it was a wretched bridge over a dangerous well—but it could bear a little kitten’s weight, surely?

Flies gathered in masses on the sun-baked lid, forming black, restless shadows on its tarred-felt covering. Big-kitten saw at once that they offered sport. And he soon found it just as nice to eat them as it was exciting to catch them.

He had not been at it long before the others followed suit. But no one could compete with him in accuracy; he displayed at once the master hand....

Sitting quietly on his tail, he brought down his paw with unerring accuracy, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, upon every fly that ventured within range.

White, wishing to emulate his performance, came and sat beside him; but before very long had to acknowledge that the new game was more difficult than it appeared.

She then tried crawling on her belly in pursuit of the restless creatures, and managed indeed to approach quite near to them; but each time she made her spring they flew away too soon.

Grey and Red were more fortunate. Each one took up a position on the lid, and with raised paw waited until the fly of its own accord came within striking distance. In this way they managed to catch a few flies, but far from all; Red was especially erratic, and missed two or three shots out of every four.

Black, on the other hand, after a little practise, proved himself an excellent shot; but, unhappily, he struck with such violence that the victim was smashed into a black spot, the edible fragments of which were buried in the tar.

Fly-catching did not interest Tiny. He hopped and jumped in happy ignorance on the yielding well-cover, playing prettily with his own tail. He also derived much pleasure from a rickety old hoisting-apparatus, climbing gaily up and down the disused pump-spear.

Round the rotten cover grew a border of sweet-smelling wild camomile, in the midst of which stuck up a few stray blades of rye. An occasional bee or butterfly, attracted by the scent, settled on the odorous blooms.

When a little pearl-winged “Blue-bird” appeared dancing above them, the kittens all deserted their fly-catching and with one accord sprang high in the air after it.

On this occasion Black disappeared abruptly and mysteriously into the bowels of the earth! A little dust from the broken board rose in the air behind him.

The others continued the chase, and Big-kitten succeeded in capturing the butterfly; he was lucky enough to clap his paws upon it as he clutched wildly in the air. In the silence following the capture, it was carefully and thoroughly investigated. The wings came off, and the body came in two ... and Big, in his scientific ardour, even tried to find out what was inside!

They missed Black occasionally; but after all, there was plenty without him!

Exhausted with fly- and butterfly-catching, the children lie down on the lid and rest in the sun, listening with puzzled frowns to a new and strange sound which comes from beneath them. It sounds like a toad splashing through wet grass in the rain....

Black-kitten paddles round in the filthy liquid manure. He has not the slightest notion of what it is he is treading in; but he uses his legs vigorously, for otherwise his nose complains that it lacks air. He has several times reached the walls and sought vainly to escape; but now luckily he stumbles against the wooden pump, the wood of which offers a better surface for his claws than the hard, unyielding bricks.

He pulls himself up out of the cesspool and climbs towards the streak of light, until he reaches a cross-piece, where he is able to snatch a breathing-space. He whimpers and miauws, summons up strength, and climbs farther—and as there is ample space between pump and lid, owing to the straw that once supported the pump in the hole having almost rotted away, he suddenly dumbfounds his callous relatives by pushing up his head into their midst.

It is the only part of him which is still at all recognizable: the rest of his black fur has become quite brown! He looks like a chocolate cat—but he smells otherwise! His brothers and sisters shrink back from him, and spit and hiss as if he were a stranger.

When Grey Puss later on miauwed herself into view with a captured mouse and warm milk, he was at last declared genuine, and in addition enfolded in her arms. But Big shirked his washing duties that afternoon! He licked his mother, it is true, but only on the neck and in the ears; no one else received attention from his lavish tongue.

The clever little cat-mother, realized quite well what had happened, and at once shifted her family from their dangerous summer-house back to their old home. Well satisfied with the security of the burial-mound, she left her children clustered round the giant stones enjoying the sunset, while she herself curled up in the entrance hole and fell asleep.

THE DRAGON-FLY

A red-gold beam of light came from heaven, poured over the landscape through a mighty window in the clouds, and tinged with mauve the heavy well-lid’s brittle edges. It lit up Grey Puss’ colours and the kittens’ glossy coats: Black remained black and Grey remained grey; but Red turned to deeper red and White changed to gold.

The evening breezes began to blow, setting the ryefield’s crowded stalks a-whispering, and carrying in their wake the strong, delicious odour of new bread. The aspen leaves blinked and waved, sending the departing summer day a last farewell.

A large brown-gold “bird,” with four wings and a long, stiff tail, came pitching with jerky, irregular flight towards the kittens. The lure of the chase seized them all, and they crouched down among the stones and waited....

The dragon-fly turned with a crackling sound; White and Tiny shrank back; Grey drew his hind legs farther in under him; Black’s tail thickened and his hair rose. Only Big-kitten’s fighting lust remained unshaken; he gathered himself together for a spring, and the others noticed that his eyes shone with a curious flickering gleam.

The next time the dragon-fly swooped, White, Red and Tiny bolted hurriedly into cover. Grey felt shaky, but stood his ground bravely, while Black hissed, and lunged with his paw.

The dragon-fly pitches farther ... and, rolling perilously over as it turns, makes a wide circle through the gold, flaming light crowning the sea of rye ... then comes crackling swiftly back again, fleeing already from the approaching twilight. But this time the insolent, many-winged “bird” does not escape! While Black snorts and strikes with his paw, Big leaps aloft and hangs his claws together on the luckless creature in its flight.

It was Big-cat’s first important catch. And it was devoured with general satisfaction, especially its fat, large-eyed head.

THE OLD CROW

Thus continued week after week the happy family life on the mound.

Still no sign of any danger from without. The corn is now so tall that no “human” would think of tramping through it merely to approach a common, tumble-down burial-mound. It forms a stormless ocean round their island home.

The merry, light-hearted little pussies now begin to show signs of growth. Their faces are larger and more intelligent, their bodies smooth and supple, their legs disproportionately long, and their tails less short and scraggy. Each kitten’s character and personality grows more apparent with every day that passes.

When evening comes they creep away from the mound to play, and all night long they prowl about near their home, exploring the immediate neighbourhood. They examine carefully everything of interest they find, and are soon well acquainted with the mouse’s hiding-place and the small bird’s favourite haunt.

In addition they make longer expeditions—sometimes in twos and threes, sometimes alone—down across the fields, through the plough-furrows, and along the hedge and ditch.

One day they make their first important catch—a mouse which has been left, half-crippled, by a crow. Grey hears the mouse first, Big springs upon it, while Black deals it a blow which makes it roll over. Red almost succeeded in bolting off with it, but White and Tiny blocked the road. Who finally ate the mouse could not be decided. One thing, however, they were all agreed on: a moment later there was no mouse left!

Some time afterwards, Black, who always preferred prowling about alone, was passing the place where the mouse had been slaughtered when he met the original captor of the mouse, long since digested.

It was a grey bird with black wings, and a black, long-nosed head. It fluttered superciliously backwards and forwards from one molehill to another. Several times it turned its head and looked attentively at the kitten; and, when Black continued to creep along in its wake, it hopped up on an adjacent molehill to get a closer view of its pursuer.

This put Black on his mettle! He dropped flat to the ground and crawled forward on his stomach; but just as he arrived within springing distance it spread its wings and flapped with ostentatious slowness to another molehill.

Thus ended Black’s first encounter with the cunning old crow.

CHAPTER FIVE

BIG-KITTEN

Thick-set and sturdy, with short tail, strong legs, and a back which merged smoothly into a plump, round stomach; big, attentive eyes with intelligence and intensity in their glance; small ears never at rest; this was Big!

He was the born master-hunter of the litter, and spent nearly all his time lying in wait on his belly, his tail stretched out behind him. He captured in a flash every bit of fluff carried past by the wind; he pursued passionately every butterfly and bird that came near him. When one of his brothers or sisters got up and walked away, Big-kitten would look up with a start and steal cautiously in the wake of the “meat.”...

He was always the one to start a new game ... and he commenced every game of “tag” with a leap right over his playfellow; a deliberate insult which emphasized his opponent’s inferiority.

Although Big was still only a little half-grown fellow, his paws itched with the lust of the chase, and in his mind smouldered a constant desire for adventure. During the noonday hour of rest he would push out recklessly from the island-fortress, and, when the weather was dry and warm, creep far away out along the hedge and ditch bordering the corn.

Inbred in him was the ability to make use of every scrap of cover offered by Mother Nature, whether a tiny depression in the ground, or a tuft of grass, behind which he would hide and listen patiently before proceeding on his way. With doubled-up legs and body dragging along the ground he could creep for half-hours at a time, hiding in a bush or copse when he wished to rest or stretch his muscles.

His movements were so light and deft that he barely disturbed the grass—no shaking flower or trembling stalk ever betrayed his passage!

One day he went farther than usual along the ditch.... He had found a splendid hunting-ground! Flies and swallows swept over him in crowds. Now he must do something big!

He exerted all his powers to the uttermost: lifted his feet high to avoid scraping and rustling, crawled up at frequent intervals on stones to look around, and often sat still listening with his head stretched high above the grass. His ears were instantly directed towards every sound, while simultaneously he crouched ready to spring....

His efforts were crowned with success; he came upon a weird, earth-like little animal which sat digging at a hole. He should have sprung upon it at once, but he hesitated. Then the earthy one started up and ran off, disappearing with a final hop into an adjacent bush.

In the bush sat a young starling with broken wing, enjoying the view, and under the impression that it had reached safety at last.

Not many days before it had slipped out of its nest; the down of childhood still lingered on its body. What a long, long time it had already lived, thought the little fellow!

How it had wonderingly stared out of the nest, peeping through the branches after its mother as she flew away in search of food!...

With what a shiver of dread it had, one fine morning for the first time in its life, set foot upon the ground!... There was something about the ground which frightened it dreadfully; true, the earth could not run and jump, but nevertheless the little bird didn’t feel at all safe there. It longed to go aloft—aloft and flying!

The first minor difficulties were soon overcome. It learnt to glide through the air from branch to branch. Then suddenly it found itself really flying, able to turn and twist and sweep round in curves, to swerve upwards in spirals and suddenly turn and corkscrew down again. It had become master of its destiny—the world was big and the earth beautiful, for real life had begun.

Then one day it had flown into the farmer’s kitchen garden, which twinkled with flowers glowed with fruit; red and tempting they lay upon the ground, for it was strawberry season. There came a shot!

Something queer happened: all at once, after a loud noise, it found itself unable to rise and fly aloft; it could only hop clumsily in the air.

It ran and ran, tearing away in the direction of the long-drawn whistle of terror which the other birds uttered as they flew away. Now it sat quite still under the bush, awaiting the inevitable doom which comes to every crippled bird.

For days it had hopped about, getting farther and farther out into the field....

Big-kitten made very short work of it; his victim sat waiting as if put there for him by the Creator. To capture it was child’s play.

Thus did the world with its colours and sounds vanish from the consciousness of the little brown starling.... Sharp teeth buried themselves in its neck and greedy lips sucked its blood.

THE CONQUEROR

Big-kitten would not devour his booty on the spot. In addition to being a great hunter, he was very fond of bragging of his exploits. He started, therefore, on the return journey at once, in order to display his booty outside the cat borough.

Forward through the green grass he treads, slowly and carefully. His white forepaws appear first ... as if feeling their way; then follow the round head, plump body, and gently swishing tail. His jaws seem enormous, and his neck looks swollen—but this is because he is carrying the bird in his mouth.

He grips it by the middle; head and neck dangle down on one side, legs and tail stick out on the other; while along the ground drag its limp wings, on which his forepaws keep treading and delaying his progress....

Presently he puts his burden down for a breathing-space—now he picks it up again; his hairless little red nose-tip flattens out, and his yellow, slanting eyes close viciously as he crunches it in his teeth.

As it happens, none of the others are outside the hole when he arrives, so that he receives no immediate applause; he therefore begins to run about miauwing, which soon fetches out the whole band. They shall view him as conqueror!

With the young starling dangling from his jaws and his tail hoisted proudly he swaggers in among them. He twitches a wing tantalizingly under their noses, making them snap jealously at it. At last he lies down and devours his booty with exasperating calmness and deliberation.

However, the young starling is more than he can manage at one sitting, and when he is satisfied he begins to play with the remains.

Unfortunately, of course, it is dead; but he does everything possible to make it seem alive!

He takes it between his forepaws and casts it high in the air, then catches it with a deep, savage growl. He puts it in front of him and gives it a push, causing it to jerk forward. This stimulates his imagination enormously; he thinks the bird is about to escape, and quickly thrusts his claws into it.

Again, with rapid touches of his paws he brushes the starling towards him, at the same time jumping back quickly—and now in his haste he rolls over backwards and lies there, juggling ecstatically with the dead bird.

Surrounding him, but hidden behind stone and hillock, his brothers and sisters, with ears stiff and whiskers quivering, wait and watch ... perhaps a miracle will happen and the bird fly towards one of them....

Just then a sea-gull comes sweeping past the mound, and, startled at seeing the kitten flock just beneath it, drops a jet of white, which hits the victor on the forehead and nose....

Big makes a leap upwards at the sharp-shooter, and afterwards, feeling the need of a good wash, forgets for a time all about the starling.

When he returns it has vanished! Tiny sits with a most innocent expression on his face, and Red had a feather in his whiskers!

He ought really to have trounced the two impudent brutes; but it was beneath his dignity—besides, he was full to the brim. He could go out into the field and catch another one if he liked—he was quite certain he could!

BLACK-KITTEN

This was a fellow to be handled carefully!

He returned snarl and spit for a kind word—and he never hit softly on the nose, but scratched so that it hurt. He did not understand fun, but took everything in dead earnest; and in consequence was always quarrelling with his brothers and sisters. They knew him well enough by now, and only as a last resource, when there was nobody else about to play with, would one make the best of a bad job and take Black. In revenge he mixed in a game of his own accord whenever it suited him, and that in a most aggressive and unpleasant manner.

He was strong and well built; but he had large paws—and worse still, an ugly face!

A high-arched forehead protruded abruptly over unusually deep-set eyes. The eyes themselves were golden-green in colour—and some thing angry and evil perpetually obscured their glance, like a murky cloud over a clear horizon. And the wildness in the eyes was emphasized by the almost constantly pressed-back ears.

He was extremely skilful at climbing trees! His insulting and provocative behaviour often resulted in a general assault upon him, and when things became desperate he invariably went aloft.

To get up was easy enough—all the kittens could do that; but none of them could come down like Black. The others slid and scrambled down, thereby ruffling their fur and blunting their claws; he, on the contrary, had the real tree-climber’s blood, having inborn in him the art of descending in successive jumps, a number of short falls, which he checked at the right moment by sticking all four batches of claws into the tree-trunk.

As time passed, he became as much at home in the trees as a marten, and could spring from top to top with the skill and agility of a squirrel. It is doubtful whether any other cat than he could have escaped from the manure-well.

Just as the secret of Samson’s strength was hidden in the giant’s growth of hair, so was Black’s concealed in his claw-daggers; he spent, indeed, every spare moment in sharpening his claws!

He was nearly always to be seen by the old gate-post, where he squatted down and reached up with his forepaws, listening contentedly to the scratching of his claws on the hard, bone-dry wood. He always finished off by stropping them, stroking them forwards and backwards over the corner of the post until they were as sharp as shoemakers’ bradawls.

None of the others possessed weapons like these!

And as he grew up and began to catch things, he deceived by means of them even experienced old birds! Thus, one day an old male sparrow taking a leisurely dust-bath fell a victim to his precocity. The sparrow, with the wisdom of his years, thought, “Piff! it’s only a kitten!” And it flew up just in time to escape—if Black had been an ordinary kitten!

But that was its mistake—just as the chameleon with its lightning-like tongue reaches the distant insect, so did Black at the critical moment succeed in thrusting forward his claws and reaching the bird.

These terrible claws of his in reality made his forepaws abnormally long—a fact which his brothers and sisters also had long since discovered!

When Mother Puss sat dissecting her spoil and Black-kitten came too near, she used at first to lash out at Master Impudence. But Master Impudence lashed back! It was as if he said, “You must make room for me, too!” And the old she-cat soon learned to respect him for his swift, scratchy boxes on the ear.

In general he was timid and solitary.... The moment the kittens heard people on the field-path near by, he would arch his back, thicken his fur, and hurriedly run to cover.

MIAUW-MIAUW—MIAUW-MIAUW

Black made one of his first expeditions at the time when the wheat was just high enough to hide him. He sauntered defiantly through it, caring not a jot whether the ground beneath were wet or dry. Long, dark cloud-shadows came hurtling along and surrounded him; the bluish-green wheat became black, making it impossible to distinguish him as he crawled through its depths.

But once, when the sky was clear and the sun unrolled its carpet of light before his eyes, he caught sight of a little brown speck among the green stems. His legs disappeared in his fur, and his body lengthened out, as he pushed chin, neck, belly, and tail slowly along the ground.... Now he could see that the spot was a bird, so fat and heavy that it weighed down the thistle-top on which it sat.

Suddenly came a hoarse scream from the air: “Kra, kra!”

Soon afterwards a peewit fluttered round his ears. It had come from behind and caught him in the act; he had been so absorbed in his sport that he had forgotten to keep a look out.

He refused to flee; he just sat there slashing with his tail while the wide-awake flying-corps of birds did sentry duty above!

Two crows hung low on flapping wings just over his head, scolding and cursing him until his hair vibrated with fury. The pair of peewits goaded him to frenzy by attacking alternately from behind and before, while the stupid larks came and sat on the gate-post not far off to watch the fun.

He had to give up all hope of that speck on the thistle-top; but just to have seen it and to have got so near to it seemed to him, nevertheless, something of an adventure.

For a long time he wandered about in vain, sniffing the flowers, but at last, just by a heap of stones, he found a new brown speck. Had he been experienced and realized what he was after, he would perhaps have hesitated; as it was, he rejoiced in happy ignorance, and sprang.

The brown speck—which was a young weasel out on the same errand as himself—sprang with a whine into the air. It was instantly fully alive to its danger! Although thin as a lath and not longer than a mole, it showed him at once by its grin that it possessed teeth by no means inferior to his own.

But Black did not mean to be cheated of his spoil a second time; he attacked suddenly and recklessly, metamorphosed in a flash from a black shadow into a living, vicious beast.

With hair on end and eyes gleaming phosphorescent in the twilight, he made his spring.

The young weasel jumped aside, giving him at the same time a sharp little nip in the neck. Its methods resembled rather those of a pole-cat; for it did not attack openly, but kept darting in from the side and from behind with quick, cunning little feints.

The little vermin was possessed of a devil; but Black for the moment was possessed of two! He could be a young tiger when he chose—and, undaunted by the wound in his neck, he dealt the weasel a lightning blow with his forepaw, following it up with a murderous bite through the snout which rendered his enemy helpless.

The weasel writhed frenziedly in his grip; but the tiger-kitten killed it off-hand, as if it were a mere mouse. He thought that his spoil smelled rather strongly; but he was too young and hungry to be dainty....

He picks it up and makes for home ... arrives via ditch and furrow in the vicinity of the burial-mound. Anyone on the field-path? He is quite close to it, and knows he must cross it. In the ordinary way he prefers walking along it, but not when carrying booty. Supposing one of his brothers or sisters should meet him and try to take it from him! He wants to enjoy his meal in peace—with hide and hair and intestines and all! He has no wish to fight twice over for the same spoil; nor does he want to lose his feast and spoil the pleasure of victory by being compelled to share with others.

The electric sheen in his black fur becomes more brilliant, and his eyes strain forward on the alert, as he steals cautiously along absorbed in his thoughts of his victory and the feast to come.

Again comes that hoarse “kra-ing” from the air!

The previous day he had been shown the necessity of concealment when tracking his game; now he was to learn that it was even more necessary after the game was caught.

That fool of a crow has once more sneaked up behind him! It hangs over his head jealous of his prize, while it advertises to the whole world what he has in his mouth.

His triumph is to be marred, then, after all!

From all directions stream his brothers and sisters, headed by old Mother Grey Puss; she approaches with electrified back-fur anxious as to what may be the matter.

They come nearer, but they cannot understand what he is doing! He sits doubled over something he is trying to hide. His ears are flattened and his eyes glitter with anxiety, and they can hear from afar off how he snarls and threatens.

Now Grey Puss herself dares not approach nearer; his multifarious noises of warning become more and more continuous....

The frightened kittens press closer to her; the entire family is overawed and silent; for the first time they hear an angry he-cat’s sombre, booming music. “Su-wau-wau-wau ... mau, mau, mau....”

And he gnashes his teeth until it harmonizes with the plashing of his slaver.

GREY-KITTEN

Such a short-legged little cat was surely never seen before! She seemed rather to crawl and glide over the ground than to walk. She had inherited her mother’s disproportionately large hare-like ears, and had a far keener sense of hearing than any of the other kittens. The slightest sound brought her head up with a jerk, her ears directed instantly in the exact direction of the sound, while cunning and deceit flashed into her usually trustful eyes. Hers was a quiet, thoughtful nature, which apparently never waxed very enthusiastic over anything; it was as if she pondered carefully every step she took!

She could sit still for hours at a time, with her tail curled carefully round her neatly gathered paws, and watch the doings of the others. An enormous degree of patience and the ability to wait characterized her nature; they all thought she slept, but it was not so; she saw and heard everything.

She often crept round the foot of the mound and down along the ditch and fence—and whenever she found a little hole in the earth which looked as if it were inhabited, she would sit down and watch, if necessary for hours. This monotonous waiting for game suited her nature perfectly; however bad the state of the ground or of the weather, it made no difference to her—she bore it all with good-natured indifference.

Lying thus in wait was a treat to her. Her sense of hearing was so keen that she found sufficient entertainment in listening to the subterranean rumblings of her prey. Minute linked itself to minute with lightning speed; and although to an onlooker it seemed that nothing in the world was happening, in reality she was experiencing thrills of anticipation all the time.

She was also an expert at catching dragon-flies, although indeed in another manner than brother Big. She could, as it were, hypnotize them down to her. When a dragon-fly was performing acrobatics above her head, she just sat still and stared and stared, until presently the insect, whether attracted by her colouring or by her eyes, came so close that she had only to put out a paw and knock it down.

One evening, while the setting sun bathes the burial-mound in its red splendour, and the giant stones shine as if coated with pink enamel, she creeps out to the field.

The windows of the farm flash with light, and over the white, bulging summer clouds falls a scarlet, claret-bordered veil. Everywhere she goes she hears the munching of grass: horses and cattle are feeding after the day’s exertion....

She peeps to the right; to the left—and listens.

Then sits down softly—and listens, listens.... Is there anything? No! Then forward, silently forward....

With crouching loins and curved tail, but with chest raised and neck stretched high, she writhes through the grass, as if treading on flames.

A sudden halt—a careful investigation! No; false alarm again! And Grey creeps along until she finds another mouse-hole....

The twilight falls, and the great black maybugs begin to wind their sound-threads round her. A horse has dropped some manure close to where she sits—the mice like making their holes under that!

The dike-chat flutters past with its young. The little grey birds are swallowed up in the darkness, leaving behind only a flicker from their white tails.

The slim young hare hops with supple grace across the field, stopping to sniff at each root and plant....

Grey sits patiently before her mouse-hole, listening to the faint scratching of its owner’s feet deep down in the earth. The minutes race; her mind is utterly absorbed with the one thrilling subject—mouse!

Presently a distant rumble rises to her ears; grains of sand are rolling down the tunnel. The sound, which no human ear could hope to distinguish, increases in volume until it culminates in a faint flap: a baby mouse with thin white legs and a tail three times as long as its body crouches curled up at the entrance!

Without straightening its body, it begins at once to propel itself forward through the grass-stems, looking for all the world like a living bullet on legs....

Now the noise of its running has stopped ... the mouse swarms up and down the straws, so that they whine like violin-strings in the cat’s ears. Her soul is a sound board on which each whine impinges, magnified and vibrating.... In the most approved fashion she creeps upon her prey, and, in spite of a clumsy spring, manages to nail it down under her paw....

It was Grey-kitten’s first mouse; and she felt she would never tire of gazing at it. Her tail wriggled without ceasing and her eyes shone with delight ... to think that those tiny mouse-legs could make such a frightful to-do!

She could not bring herself to eat it, but must keep it to rejoice over on her way home. Every few minutes she stopped, dropped the luckless victim in front of her, and began to play with it.

And, like Big, she was stupid enough to appear with it before the whole family; even going so far as to throw it down on the ground for general admiration.

She paid dearly for that! She never did it again!

CHAPTER SIX

WHITE-KITTEN

When the wind brought word of human beings on the field-path, the kittens always stopped their play.

Grey Puss had warned them in their earliest days to beware of people, and as a rule her angry growling called them down into the hole. Now, however, when she spent less and less of her time at home, and the kittens were left to themselves, their behaviour varied according to their natures.

Big Puss and Tiny still ran for the hole; Black thrilled—he sank down on his loins and dragged himself along the ground, keeping a sharp lookout and disappearing periodically with a spitting noise. Grey and Red as a rule remained placidly lying still; but White stiffened her tail with delight and trotted to and fro, mewing and purring.

She was a merry and friendly little kitten, who made a joke of everything. Her strong desire for amusement and her inability to appreciate the stern realities of life expressed themselves at a very early stage of her existence. Just as she regularly seized the opportunity of chasing her mother’s tail, so did she often make a plaything of the old cat’s nipples, a sacrilege which more than once lost her her due share of milk.

She was not specially big or strong in appearance, but doubtless her grace and good humour would carry her far in the world.

She spent most of her time making her toilet. She could not bear the smallest piece of fluff on her coat without at once licking it off. If so much as a single hair of hers smelled slightly, she felt upset until she had succeeded in removing the cause of her indisposition. During her idle hours—and they were many—she would sit a little apart from the others, spit on her paw, with which she would wash her breast and stomach, freshen up her eyes, smooth the fur on her face, and make a parting right across the middle of her forehead.

In her charming little cat-face, with its soft, affectionate expression, were set two glistening, watery-blue eyes, which slanted as prettily as those of a clean and well-groomed little Geisha girl.

In company with Tiny she still took suck from her mother, and there was as yet no sign of this form of nourishment being abandoned. Being so much together with her little brother, she did her best to chum up with him. But the latter, who was cleverer than he looked, realized too well the disadvantage of such an entanglement, and rejected her advances point-blank; she should rather do as he did, find a big brother with whom to join forces.

TINY

Tiny was, neither in appearance nor reality, a Hercules, being thin and stunted, with a large head and big, intelligent eyes.

For the most part he lay still and slept. He had an attitude of his own which he preferred when resting: doubled up, with his hind legs well under his body, and his absurdly big head between his paws. It seemed almost as if he were trying to shut his ears against the ceaseless hurly-burly around him.

He gave rather the impression of being slow-witted and sedate; but in reality he was not such a fool as he appeared.

For example, he possessed one unique characteristic: he was an infallible weather-prophet!

His talent in this direction, however, would have remained quite useless had he kept his prophecies to himself; but, on the contrary, the moment a change of weather was impending, he could not resist giving vent to his feelings. The others then knew at once what to expect.

For example, supposing he felt rainy weather approaching, he would walk about shaking himself, dragging his tail, and mewing continuously. Then he would seek out a good hiding-place where he could lie in warmth and shelter when the rain came.

But when fine weather was to be expected, he would appear with tail at the perpendicular, purring and humming with satisfaction.

In reality he was not only a professor of weather, he was more: he was a regular little meteorological observatory! Possibly the terrible treatment once meted out to him in his earlier days by his brutal father accounted for his weak, supersensitive nerves.

Brother Black—the fighter—whose frequent mad expeditions he followed at a distance in order to be at hand at the right time to beg his livelihood, soon learned to utilize his small brother’s eccentricity.

Black preferred hunting at nightfall; but if, during the day, when crouching at his gate-post stropping his claws, he observed Tiny walking about miauling and crying, he knew at once he must get away as early as possible: it would rain that night.

Black could never resist Tiny’s cadging. His admiring looks and respectful mien were too much for the fierce warrior.

In addition, the little fellow suffered seriously from vomiting. The excess of feathers and the insufficiency of meat comprising his diet soon ruined his digestion; he had to go out and chew harsh, bitter cock’s-foot grass the moment he awoke.

In spite of this, he was the sole humorist of the family—thanks to his unusually long tail, the vigour of which was so extraordinary that it gave the impression of being a separate personality. He would wipe his paws on it, or twist it right round his neck; it was a constant source of amusement; he could even play “postman’s knock” with it.

But on the whole, his abilities and characteristics were much below the average, and he might safely be expected to turn out a failure.

When, by chance or design, he did go out on his own, he succeeded occasionally in making a catch of some sort by means of his abnormally acute powers of observation.

Thus, one day he saw a yellow-hammer settle in a tuft of withered grass; he hurried to the spot—and gulped down a most delicious omelet!

Another day he met a bunting fighting with a lark. By tacit understanding the hedge belonged to the bunting just as the field belonged to the lark, and neither permitted the other to trespass in his sphere of action—so they fought, and whirled round and round, until they both lay dead-beat in the grass.

Such a battle Tiny was a master-hand at turning to his own advantage.

He began to consider it worth while to slip out and look round. There was always something or other to be caught!

RED-KITTEN

Whatever doubt there may have been as to Tiny’s being a sly puss, it was quite certain that Red-kitten was a deceitful hussy!

Her coat alone stamped her as a mountebank, being fox-red in colour, with bright yellow stripes which turned to rings round her legs and tail.

Her body also was unique, being long, thin, and supple, and gave as she walked, like a freshly stuffed sofa.

She had a mania for stretching herself, as if she could not get her body slim and supple enough. None could compare with her in activity; she was incessantly playing tricks on the others—and when they attacked her she could easily wriggle out of their clutches, even Black and Big being unable to hold her.

A gymnast, a juggler, was Red!

In addition to her bodily virtues she had tall, slim legs, which, when necessary, enabled her to escape from the swiftest opponent by sheer speed.

She was still quite young when Box one day surprised her in the middle of the field; but, thanks to her speed, she saved herself at the last moment by scrambling up on a straw thatch, her mouth extended and the water running down her red tongue. Had there been a man on the scene he would have said that it was the first time he had seen a cat sweat!

Her cunning, flame-coloured eyes are seldom really open; she usually goes about with them screwed up, as if desiring to conceal their lowering, deceitful glance.

She is always to be seen sneaking round stones and molehills, and likes jumping out suddenly and unexpectedly. When the others play puss-in-the-corner, she prefers to lie in ambush and spring upon the nearest from behind, knock him down, and maul him about.

She beats all the others in cunning, and they do not like her to be near when they are eating; they know from experience her extraordinary skill in stealing.

On the day Mother Grey Puss brought home the herrings, each kitten was apportioned a lump of the delicious food. Big, who had received the head, sat a little apart from the others, nibbling it thoughtfully.

There was still a piece of the jaw left; it lay just in front of him, as with closed eyes he swallowed blissfully a tasty mouthful. When he opened his eyes again the herring jaw was no longer there—and a red tail-tip vanished silently behind the nearest boulder.

Nature, as a rule, equips each of her creatures generously with at least one special talent; and, provided only it uses that talent, the struggle for life is an easy one.

And Red’s talent was—thieving!

One can never take her by surprise: she possesses extraordinary decision of character, coupled with extreme cautiousness; and she never resorts to force until her prey is at her mercy. Her daily struggle for food and her constant intercourse with her talented brothers, whose highly specialized skill in trapping was so much superior to her own, have developed her inbred tendency to steal, whenever her special characteristics make it possible.

She is an expert at starting a quarrel when the others sit devouring their spoil; and while they fight, she fishes in troubled waters. She hunts indeed, but after her own fashion; and most of her spoil is second-hand!

Her sympathies are unstable; she lacks personality! Sometimes she helps Black against Big, at others Grey against Black; being always on the side of the one who owns nothing against the one who has for the moment something to steal.... She is in favour of common ownership, and is the red communist of the litter!

But she is an adept at dissembling; she is not only a great juggler, but also a great hypocrite ... her tail betrays this, for in the most exciting moments it is as stiff as a poker!

In the long run, however, the narrow bounds of catborough do not offer sufficient scope for her predatory instincts, and she is compelled to eke out her spoils. When Big, Black, and Grey, with White and Tiny in tow, slink out in the gloaming over field and meadow and follow the twisting, irregular paths of the village copse, Red lounges through the field until she meets a human track.

Experience has taught her that such a track usually leads to a place where there is something to be picked up ... some cast-away food-paper or other, which, on investigation, often proves to contain tasty morsels, such as herring-bones, cheese-rind, or scraps of fat.

Sometimes, also, an old wooden clog or a pair of cast-off stockings lie on the ground near by, but they appeal to her less, and serve only to increase her faith in human footsteps.

But it happens, too, that the tracks lead to dainties such as would make even gourmands like Big and Black turn blue in the face with envy!

The errand boys of the neighbourhood are very keen on wandering round the hedges for birds’ nests—not to destroy them, but merely to feel the thrill of peeping at the eggs. Red, aided by her cunning and her deductive faculties, finds every single one of these nests!

On one occasion she raided a lark’s nest. All night long she had followed a human “spoor,” which led over grass and clover and turnips. At a certain place the track stopped and turned off abruptly towards a clump of white marguerites.

Three nights in succession she came across the same lonely track, and found it stop on each occasion exactly at this place. And yet there was nothing there; that was peculiar!

She examined the immediate surroundings even more thoroughly, poked her nose in the steaming scent-waves—where human foot stood long in one place, the scent was warm; she knew that well enough!

At this a bird sprang up. She thrust her teeth into the nest and lapped down the nearly full-grown young greedily....

She had been right after all; food always flowed where human footsteps trod!

THE GREAT EATING-HOUSE

During the long, still evenings sounds could always be heard far away in the huge “stone-heap” where most of the tracks found by Red sooner or later ended. Often she approached courageously quite close and sat outside listening. Perpetual noise and disturbance reigned within; shrill whines, deep bellows, crowings, and cacklings penetrated its walls. A strong animal smell, as if the stone-heap were wrapped in an enormous food-paper, permeated the surrounding atmosphere.

One evening, as she sat hidden in the corn, she saw a man, with clogs clattering and forepaws covered with fur, come out and walk past.

The stableman had Box with him....

The dog scented cat, and caught a glimpse of red fur—and now Red had to gallop for her life through the corn.

Long-legged Box had almost overtaken her when she ran up into the top of a small willow tree, where, by exerting all her strength, she managed to hang fast, swaying to and fro. Box executed a wild war-dance round the trunk, leaping up as high as he could; when he grew tired of that, he turned his back to the tree and howled towards the farm for help....

Suddenly he hears a noise behind him. He whirls round, but can see nothing on account of the thick corn. He throws a glance up at the willow-top. It is empty!

At last he realizes what has happened. The red scamp has outdone him; with nose to the scent he rushes after....

The spoor leads into a ditch—and Box follows!

Now through a culvert under a road—and Box rushes at full speed into the culvert! It is lined with stones, and narrow—too narrow for the dog’s well-nourished body; he sticks fast, and can move neither forward nor back.

He has not even room left to bark; his ribs are gripped as in a vice; it is all he can do to manage a feeble, frightened whine.

All that evening he remains a prisoner in his stone cell; during the night the water rises and covers his paws—until at last, late next afternoon, his body has become so emaciated that he succeeds in squeezing backwards out of the trap.

Delighted, he runs home at once to the farm, where, however, he is subjected to the additional humiliation of being well scolded for his absence. How had his lordship enjoyed himself all that time? He had perhaps been making love in the next parish? Or had he been camping out with the fisherman’s yellow mongrel? Yes, he was a Don Juan, that’s what he was; a thoroughly wicked fellow!...

“Be careful!” he was threatened vaguely. His place was in the farmyard at night to keep guard!

Next day he was chained up.

One would think that Red would have been so frightened by this narrow escape that she would have avoided the farm and its surroundings for the future; but it was far from being the case—that sort of mishap had no effect on her at all.

In fact, with her system of going to work, such things were sure to happen; no need, therefore, to take them too seriously!

A few evenings later she is sitting again at the edge of the cornfield, and as nobody comes out and no dog chases her away, it is obvious that she is meant to gain admittance!

She creeps along the garden fence and sneaks calmly past the stall to the manure-heap, where she spends the whole night in undisturbed peace ransacking “the big food bag.”

She came back night after night; and became more and more daring....

One morning early, the housewife coming suddenly into the larder, discovered a strange cat sitting on one of the shelves, eating. She grabbed the broom and lunged out after the brute, but in her excitement aimed so badly that she transformed a large bowl of cream into a cataract!

Now the farmer’s wife became really angry! If that red devil stole cream, she’d soon begin taking puddings and meat....

She hit about her wildly and futilely.... While Red escaped by the grating through which she had come.

“Was it a cat?”

The good woman became suddenly doubtful when she had cooled down. Nobody round about owned such a cat, as far as she knew....

Was it not rather a young fox she had seen?...

CHAPTER SEVEN

BOX

Box was a mixture of every possible race of dog.

His head was pointed, but his ears, nevertheless, long and drooping, resembling those of a Gordon setter. His short, thick, bulldog neck was joined to a retriever body, from beneath which shot out four long, thin greyhound legs, and behind which dangled a long, thin, mop-ended tail.

His eyes were wolf-like and shifty, and blinked treacherously when he looked at one. Any attempt to pat him was repulsed with a growl and an evil suspicious glance.

His coat was doubtful; but his mind was definite enough: quarrelsome, ferocious, and snappish—ready to attack anyone or anything upon the slightest provocation!

He had never been able to stand cats, a trait doubtless inherited from some aristocratic, sensitive-nosed ancestor.... From his very earliest days he had found it impossible to be on friendly terms with such musky beasts.

In addition he hated sheep, and loathed the odour of cows and the stink of swine; but however much his aristocratic instincts were offended, he was always conscious at the back of his mind of a certain agreeable, meaty smell about them. The cat’s scent, however, was sour and old; it smelled of mouse, which he despised from his birth.

Besides, they were always wanting to share his food with him—a habit to which he objected strongly. They thought him asleep when—as occasionally happened—he dozed over a bone at noon outside his kennel; but he was wide awake enough, and knew exactly what their game was!

He really belonged to the farmer’s wife, and was always released at her request. He then tore round doing his amiable best to exterminate the farm’s feline inhabitants.

The foreman is sitting milking in the stall, when he is suddenly overturned and kicked into the gutter. The cows roar frenziedly.... Box has just rushed by in pursuit of a cat!

As soon as the foreman has picked himself up, a clog comes hurtling at Box—and just as he is disappearing crestfallen through the door, a milk-stool catches him in the rear.

After this exploit he seldom ventured inside the stall-door; but the foreman knew well enough when the ruffian stood outside peering through the chink, for the stall-cat’s tail always swelled and stood to attention immediately.

One day he surprised the good wife’s favourite kitten, a little white he-cat, as it lay sleeping in the barn; it was too slow in waking, and was captured. The farmer chased him with a shovel, and succeeded in recovering the kitten, but it was dead. There was nothing to do except break the news to his wife, and bury the corpse.

After that outrage Box was chained up for a very long time indeed. But gradually his madness subsided so much that he learned to recognize the “musk animals” attached to the farm; and although he could not of course regard them as friends, he yet respected them for the sake of the general peace.

But beyond the bounds of the farm, out on the road and in the fields, he showed no mercy. Every cat he met there was his sworn enemy—and he was master-hand at running them down and killing them.

CATS OF ALL COLOURS

Among the wheat, which is now almost ripe, flame the poppy-torches ... the blue-stalked corn is so thickly massed that Grey Puss disappears completely in its depths.

The seething of the rye from the adjacent field fills her sensitive ear; it is the keynote of the summer music.

Out on the grass between the heaps of hay Box sits majestically on his tail. He has accompanied the men working in the fields, and he feels himself one of them, especially taking into consideration the important nature of his sentry duty.

He has just been trying to facilitate the farmer’s ploughing by digging a deep hole in search of a mole. But the ground is too dry and the work on the whole too tedious—he doesn’t care about it any more! Then, far away out on the road he sees a man walking, and so barks at him for a time.

In this manner he is constantly useful!

At last he feels he would like a trot round.... Scarcely has he crossed the potato-field when two partridges come running towards him. Wow! he is upon them with a jump—and after them in the direction in which they shoot away on their stiff, short wings!

Then he catches sight of an animal emerging from the corn. It creeps along, its body close to the ground.... It smells, he notices; ha, cat ... cat!

Box has forgotten the partridges and races after puss. But it is difficult for him to make progress, for the corn is thick and is higher than the cat’s back. Only with extreme difficulty is he able to follow the scent.

Grey Puss for the time takes things easily.... She canters quietly away from the direction of the burial-mound. Several times she passes ditches and bunches of thistles where she could easily have lain in ambush and attacked the dog; but she knows Box well enough from old times, and does not take the pursuit very seriously.

For a time they play hide-and-seek; then the affair bores her, and she turns and makes a bee-line for home.

The children, not realizing the state of affairs, swarm out to meet her.

They see gliding towards them a daylight-coloured dog with big lumps of night stuck to its coat. Its legs move very quickly, and its tail whips and whistles like the wind. It comes with wide-open jaws, and tongue hanging out of its mouth. “Ha, ha, ha!” it gasps, as with half-shut eyes it sniffs eagerly through its big, split, padded snout.

Box suddenly sees the kittens. He literally quivers with ferocity; but before he can reach them the entrance-hole is deserted.

For a long time he remains standing outside, barking and scratching up the ground—then he rushes home to the farm and whines and jumps about; he has something to tell—and he makes a jump towards the field; he has seen cats out there, cats of all colours!

Grey Puss pondered a while over the occurrence—this Box, near whose kennel she used to sleep, on whose straw she had lain, and whose food she had sometimes shared, what did he want here sniffing at their mound? She could easily understand all the others, her natural enemies in the fields; but this dog, who, like she, had once been in favour with “the cunning ones”—was he friend or was he foe?

One still, sunny morning she lies by herself at the edge of a ditch, listening to the cows’ eternal chewing of the cud, when the sound suddenly ceases.

She wonders why the cows stop eating—and when, in addition, one or two of them begin to run about, she puts up her head—and sees Box lurch out of the corn towards her....

During the whole of the week she has been persecuted by the dog and chased about like a fox. Just as well have it out with him now as later!

For awhile she retreats before him, but upon reaching a small mound she sits and composedly awaits her pursuer.

The plump hooligan, who has lost sight of his quarry behind the waving grass, comes along, his nose close to the ground, fully occupied with following the scent....

So unexpectedly has Grey Puss changed her tactics that he cannot make up his mind to stop, but swerves to one side as if about to run past. She turns as he swings round, thus keeping her face steadily to the foe....

It is quite a new experience for Box to see a cat sit and wait to be taken in his jaws.

He prefaces his attack with a volley of hoarse dog-oaths....

Grey Puss stands with head low and mouth open; dull thunder rumbles from her throat, and her tail whips restlessly from side to side....

Box, who is unfortunate enough to have the sun full in his eyes, opens his jaws wide and makes a ferocious snap; which the cat evades with a high jump which terminates on his back. Facing backwards on him, she lets fly with fore and back claws simultaneously, combing his flesh time after time from neck to tail.

He howls, and shakes himself, and throws himself down, and rolls over and over; but the moment he rises to his feet, Grey Puss is on his back again.

The ruthless cat-exterminator is driven almost out of his wits with pain, and rushes blindly away, burning with lust for revenge, and raging impotently at such treatment from a much-despised cat, whom he now tries to convince in a plaintive whine that he never meant the slightest harm.

Twice he succeeds in shaking off the vile she-devil; but she is utterly relentless—and so, when the old manure-well appears in sight, he turns there instinctively for help. Without hesitation he tears at the crazy lid with his strong, sharp claws—and plunges through head first, while Grey Puss hops off like the flick of a whip.

A dull plash follows, and a tall spurt of red-brown fluid, emitting an insufferable smell, rises behind him....

Grey Puss sneaks round the opening listening to his splashings; then when no more Box appears, she returns straight home to her kittens.

THE LIFE-SAVING CHAIR

In the evening, when the men were returning from their work, they heard a miserable howling and splashing from the old manure-well in the field. They stopped and listened; they seemed to know the sound. Wasn’t it Box’s voice?

One of them went nearer, and saw at once from the state of the boards that someone had recently fallen through.

The moment Box heard help approaching, he began barking loudly. Thanks to his long stilts, he had, fortunately for him, been able to reach the bottom; but he could not escape unaided from the foul cesspool.

The man called to the others, and they hastened to help the unfortunate bather.

An old fire-hook, attached to a bucket which was used to hoist manure when the pump went on strike, was let down, and Box was not long getting into the “life-saving chair.”

His lacerated and bleeding back was covered with a generous layer of frightful-smelling muck; nevertheless, he felt deeply hurt when his rescuers repulsed his eager, well-meant thanks for the service they had rendered him.

“Puh! Box ... you pig!” they shouted, kicking out at him with their wooden clogs as he rushed forward to embrace them.

And on arrival at the farm he was, without the slightest warning, thrice swilled over with pails of horrid, icy-cold water.

And, to add insult to injury, he was forbidden admission to the house for several days afterwards....

After this, “Dirty-pig Box” superseded the usual call of “Good Box” ... dirty-pig Box who fell in the cesspit!

Grey Puss is ruler of the fields; no other animal than Box dare face her claws.

Once there came a fox; but Grey Puss settled with him long ago. Prowling about one night he found the cat-family’s delicious scent; followed it up to the burial-mound, and stuck his nose in the entrance ... spitting and wheezing noises exploded from every hole and crevice!

When he ventured farther, a claw-speckled wild beast flew out and slashed at his head before he had time to bite. He had seen the spitting fury plainly—but now after the impact he could not catch a glimpse of it, although his nose and ears told him plainly that it was still just in front of him.

Reynard shook his head and blinked his eyes incessantly, but without effect; he remained steadily blind. The blood poured down his face—and in the entrance before him stood Grey Puss, with back and belly arched like a tightly strung bow. Her murderous claws had mutilated her opponent terribly—both his eyes were torn out....

It would have been a life of idyllic peace for Grey Puss if only that stupid Box had kept away....

Her old sweetheart, the kitten’s father, seldom leaves the shelter of the farm nowadays, and never ventures as far as the old willow stumps, let alone the burial-mound. Besides, the mother-cat no longer has reason to fear him; he won’t try to eat his children now that they are so big!

She has long since banished from the fields the numerous other cats from the village and the neighbouring farms. The mere sight of such a sleek, milk-fattened house-cat, who hunts and kills only for the sport of the thing rouses a furious hatred in her breast. Besides, she is just a wee bit jealous of their sheltered, luxurious lives!

It irritates her that she is forbidden access to the sweet milk-pails, and that she is homeless, and doomed to eternal wandering. The shelter of the barn, the warmth of the stall, the peaceful gloom of the loft, have never lost their attraction for her....

During the day she now leaves the kittens to take care of themselves, and spends most of her time sleeping under a hedge or fence near by, lulled by the rustle of the leaves and the soft rasping of the corn-stalks. At nightfall, however, she returns regularly to the mound, bringing always some dainty or other with her. Then the young ones jump and dance round her in delight, pulling and biting at her fur.

But in the depths of the night, some stray wayfarer, hurrying home with lighted lantern along the road, sometimes sees a cluster of fiery balls glowing in the darkness of the hedge. Two by two they hang, as if fastened to the wall of gloom....

It is Grey Puss out hunting at the head of her band of kittens!

She catches hares, so big that she cannot drag them with her, but must tear them asunder on the spot and parcel them out among the youngsters.

THE CROW AGAIN

The kittens are now compelled more and more to find their own food; and in consequence are often reduced to a very meagre diet. Maybugs, grasshoppers, and snails float about inside each of them!

Occasionally, however, the old cat gathers her flock around her.

When she has made an exceptionally big catch, which she herself cannot eat up, she miauws them together for a great banquet. They behave in exactly the same way as when they were small kittens: each of them grabs a lump, and sits down gnawing it, always on the alert, growling, scowling, and spitting—and, if necessary, fighting.

Black, especially, has developed extensively in the matter of quarrelsomeness—and he is now the terror of his brothers and sisters on account of his strength and brutality. He deprives both Grey and Red mercilessly of their portions; he is not even afraid of letting Big’s back make the acquaintance of his claws; which results as a rule in that portion, also, dropping from its rightful owner’s jaws.

And if his claws do not suffice, his strong, pointed teeth are brought into play, and infallibly succeed in convincing his victim that part of the spoil is not what he is after; he wants the lot!

Naturally, everyone protests—and as a rule Big springs at his throat; but when it is a question of fighting, Black is all there. He bites hard, and has a habit of following it up at once with a second bite, if the first does not take immediate effect.

As a result, he can take whatever liberties he chooses! One never knows what he will do next: he tackles things which no ordinary cat would dream of attempting; all his brothers and sisters, except Tiny, fight shy of him.... As soon as they see him they shriek out “Fiew!” And “fiew” is the cat language for “madness.”

Every morning and evening he takes his usual walk. Unseen and unheard, he approaches his quarry, and before the luckless mouse or bird dreams he is near, he is upon it with a spring. He never plays with his victim, but disposes of it at once. Not until late in the morning does he return home, for he never goes to rest except on a full stomach.

Just as Big is the scourge of all birds living in the field, so is Black the scourge of all those living in hedge or wood. He wanders from tree to tree, and not even the densest thicket can resist his progress. He glides through the thorny, jealous heart of a hawthorn copse like a panther, insensate and invulnerable. Tears in skin or snout please him and urge him to greater efforts; it is as if his body cannot feel pain. Black as the branch itself, he lies stretched at full length, searching out the little birds’ homes—and once he catches a glimpse of wings settling in hiding-place or treetop, he never rests satisfied until he has made closer, thorough investigation.

But the old crow defies his strength and skill. It plays him all manner of tricks, and uses every imaginable opportunity to bespatter him with the foulest language.

One day it added to these an unspeakable insult!

It is early dawn.... All the birds are still half asleep, and flutter clumsily as they flee from his path. Even the lark makes such a din in rising that Black gives quite a jump.

He arrives with a young rat in his mouth at the entrance of the village wood, when suddenly his old enemy the crow attacks him in his usual unexpected, disconcerting manner.

He drops the rat for a moment and makes a foolhardy dash at the bird; but it merely spreads its wings and, floating leisurely sideways a short distance, settles on a big stone....

He would just run over there and shift the ugly devil!

His temper begins to get the better of him and he becomes more and more foolhardy; the rat must look after itself for a bit, while he gives that beast a real scare for once in its life! He races like a mad thing after the bird, from grass tuft to mound, from stone to stone—and when the cunning old crow has tempted the inexperienced hot-head far enough away, it flaps back over his head and bags the spoil of war.

That was a surprise; nay, more, an event unparalleled in the black cynic’s whole experience! His back rises and his hair stands on end with fury; but it does not bring back the young rat from the air.

Nevertheless, in spite of all, he felt very proud of himself. Big-cat could catch birds and Grey could catch mice; but he could catch rats....

His short, strong jaws could inflict a terrible bite—and his teeth gradually became his most formidable weapon. It seemed almost as if there were weasel’s blood in him, so quickly did he fix in his teeth; and he employed just the animal’s tactics: spring and bite—and then back out of reach again.

As soon as he found that rats had teeth, he began to use this method of attack regularly.

Grey Puss often sat looking doubtfully at him.... No, she was sure he was not quite cat-normal in the head!

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE KITTENS GO OUT HUNTING

Grey Puss had not been home for two whole days and nights.

And the unaided efforts of the kittens to secure food had not resulted in anything more satisfying than the usual maybugs and dragon-flies, with some extra big grasshoppers.

This morning it is such fine day weather that, after having waited in vain till sunrise for their mother’s return, they resolve to set out on a hunting expedition alone. Necessity is teaching even these four-month-old babies self-reliance!

They start all together and wind their way successfully through the corn; they reach a ditch, and soon after a road—faster and faster they go....

Big is the leader. Red follows close behind, ready to help in the event of her brother being specially lucky. She seconds him carefully; stops instantly when he stops; crouches when he crouches. All the time her flame-coloured eyes sweep round searchingly—and she wears her most knowing expression. Farther back comes Grey with her long hare’s ears thrust forward, her whole attention directed far ahead. She moves forward in spasms, sinking down every other moment to the ground to listen.

A little behind her saunters dreamy little White; she glances carelessly about her at the larks, bumble-bees, her sisters ... anything.

Last of all, far behind the rest, looms “Madness,” shadowed by Tiny—surnamed “Terror.”

“Terror” has of late risen more and more in his brother’s estimation; the cunning little weather-prophet exercises a wonderfully soothing influence on the ever-angry warrior. Possibly it is because the little fellow never with so much as a scowl or an arching of the back dares to oppose him, but when attacked instantly rolls over abjectly in the dust.

Black likes the little coward’s companionship. It is true that he preferred hunting alone—he was naturally of a solitary disposition and could not work in a crowd; but, on the other hand, it was always pleasant to have someone upon whom to vent his anger when his hunting was a failure.

The dawn is beginning to break!

Behind a group of long, irregular clouds which stretch in streaks right across the heavens, the rising sun’s reflected rays shine red and gold. But below the clouds all is darkness, from the depths of which loom the vague outlines of the immediate foreground.

White daisies twinkle round the thickets and wallflowers border the rye-field, while snakeweed and cornflowers shine forth along hedge and path.

A little reed-warbler gives a voice to a hole in the swamp and sings and trills in thin staccato. The sight of an insect causes it simultaneously to increase its volume of sound and to curve upwards from the ground. For a moment it hangs with outspread wings motionless in the air—then sinks slowly and gracefully, singing all the time.

White watches the bird’s movements lazily; her interest is so small that her tail-tip scarcely curls.

The fly is not captured, nor was that really the little songster’s intention.... The insect had merely roused its desire to leave its gloomy hole and climb up into the fresh air and sunshine.

But now partridges begin to lend the fields voices; yellow-hammers twitter in the hedges; starlings in the village wood; linnets in the depths of the hawthorn thicket.

In a patch of weeds near one of the swamps a sucking-calf wakes from its slumber. It has a skin like a lion and a pair of glittering-black, leopard’s eyes; but in other respects could not possibly be mistaken for a beast of prey. Although they have never seen such a creature before, the kittens practically ignore it; except for White, who feels enormously attracted the moment she catches a whiff of the sweet cow-smell.

The calf is still so feeble that it cannot stand upon its legs. Its eyes follow the small white visitor languidly, as the kitten with arched back and rigid tail rubs herself affectionately against its neck.

White delights in the warm animal-odour which streams in over her; closer and closer she presses herself against the calf, miauwing all the while coyly and ingratiatingly.

The flies assemble in multitude on the baby calf’s wrinkled, red skin; White catches a score of them with ease, and thereby satisfies her appetite; then, discovering a thick layer of milk scum on her host’s muzzle, she cautiously licks that off too. Finally she curls herself up between the animal’s legs and goes to sleep.

The others continue hunting....

Scattered about at irregular intervals in the form of a fan, they spread themselves out over the landscape.

On arriving at a wheat-field bordering the little village copse, Big and the thief-cat find fresh human “spoor” on a narrow, winding path. Anything human repels Big—but Red follows them up towards the farm.... Suddenly a flock of sparrows buzz out from a hedge and settle in the wheat. A thrill runs through Big; his eyes gleam with the lust of the chase—and he follows noiselessly in their wake.

Grey has long ago heard the squeak of a mouse in the hedge, and found an inhabited mouse-hole near which he sits in ambush.

THE ATTACK ON THE CROW’S NEST

Black, shadowed by “Terror,” walks straight towards the village copse; a little wilderness of elms and ashes, with a thick undergrowth of nettles, meadow-sweet, and buttercups. A flower-bedecked box-thorn hedge guides them from the fields into the twisting wood-scented tunnels, where a subdued greenish glimmer succeeds the strong white light of the meadow.

From a poplar over in the corner are heard gurglings and flutterings; the young crows, already big and able to fly, are receiving their first beakful of breakfast.

Black and Tiny sit down and listen eagerly.... Suddenly an old she-hare, homeward bound, comes running along the path towards them. At the sight of the giant animal “Terror” rushes off into hiding, but Black puts on his war-paint and stands his ground: he raises his back and shows his teeth, hoists his tail and erects a stiff bulwark of “brushes” all over him.

The hare stamps his forefoot on the ground; then vanishes like the wind.

Before Black has quite recovered from this shock he gets another: his enemy the old crow has spotted him, and hangs poised in the treetop.

A horrid red-green haze overspreads “Madness’” eyes; he shakes and quivers all over his body each time the bird utters its loud, grating cry.

He hates that crow! His skill in climbing; his courage in attack; his swiftness of spring; are useless against it. Noisy and bragging, conscious of its enemy’s powerlessness, it balances high up in the air, shouting to the whole world that he, the cat, is about, that he is on the warpath!

Black’s whiskers quiver; he growls with suppressed savagery and passion.... How he would like to catch that crow; torture it, eat it—eat it very slowly!...

Now he slips into hiding in a burdock clump and waits patiently for the squalling devil’s curiosity to subside.

A blackbird whistles from a willow and a magpie warbles from the copse; he follows carefully by means of sounds what is happening ... and when all is quiet again, he sneaks on once more—with his faithful follower at his tail-end.

A strong, earthy smell mingled with the scent of flowers fills the tunnels. The two cats have constant difficulty in breathing, and again make towards the outskirts of the copse.

“Madness” is already making for the boundary-hedge when he suddenly sees a young crow, with something heavy in its beak, flap into the top of an elder tree. His glance grows as black as a thunder-cloud—and without a second’s hesitation he leaps back from the hawthorn and gallops to the tree.

“Terror” patters in his wake ... until he reaches the root of the elder, where he sits up on his hind legs and watches the ascent.

Black climbs rapidly with short, agile springs. When he is half-way up the young crow flies away to another treetop....

Black tries to follow by means of the lateral branches, but finding none of these strong enough to bear, he is compelled to descend to the bottom and begin all over again at the next tree.

The pursuit is carried on noiselessly. The bird has no suspicion that it is being pursued; otherwise its wild war-cry would begin instantly.

The elders are half grown and rather difficult to climb. Nevertheless, the cat’s zeal is unabated; although he has soon cantered up and down three of them—but then, trees are for him nothing more formidable than extra steep hills.

In the fourth elder he gives up, and hangs panting, with claws anchored in the stem—while brother Tiny waits below, wildly excited as to the result of the expedition.

Very often whilst waiting in this same manner “Terror” has received his—in his opinion—well-earned reward in the shape of a dropped egg; or a wretched fledgling bird, which, horrified by the sight of the two evil, greedy eyes rising over the side of the nest, has flapped vainly into space on its half-formed wings, leaving Black to devour its helpless brothers and sisters. All such windfalls Tiny takes as thank-offerings from his big brother and promptly puts them out of sight....

Was dear old “Madness” about to make another haul? The poltroon knows well that in any case there is nothing to do but sit and wait!

Whilst doing so, he dares not for his life make a sound—not the least hint of a “miauw!” Once, long ago, he did so—the next moment “Madness” left his ambush and fell on him tooth and nail. Tiny supposed at first that he was being attacked in mistake for the quarry. Would he be eaten? But no, he should only keep his mouth shut!

After a long “breather,” the climber unclamps himself and resumes his progress through the treetops. He comes soon to a place where the trees stand extra close together, so that Tiny constantly receives twigs and bits of bark in his face. Under this treatment the little rogue’s keenness gradually diminishes—nothing good to eat comes down!

By chance Black stumbles on the tree where the crow’s nest is situated. Walking along a cross branch he lowers himself into it. It is beautifully soft and comfortable—but, alas! long since empty. A good idea strikes him ... the sunshine is so gloriously warm up here ... why not take his midday nap in the nest!

He lies down and, shutting his eyes, falls into a half-doze, without taking the slightest regard for Tiny, who sits patiently waiting below. Comfortably rolled up on his side, his nose thrust between his thighs, he is wafted dreamily through space.

The sun goes gratefully down, saturating his coat with warmth and filling his mind and body with content. The rushing of the wind and the sighing of the long curved branches add to the sensuous enjoyment of his slumber....

He has always loved thus to swing and sway. At home at the burial-mound his favourite position is right at the very top of the little, wind-blown poplar. On the occasions when he has quarrelled with all the rest he likes to creep up there, and sit like a marten, with his paws drawn well in under him. For hours at a time he sits there with wrinkled scruff and half-shut eyes, enjoying the view out over the undulating land. At long intervals he lowers his head and peeps solemnly down, like an owl waking from sleep.

“Terror” finds the wait endless!

And the only explanation he can think of for his brother’s lengthy residence above is that he has found something exceptionally good. “Terror’s” large, wondering eyes sparkle with anticipation and excitement ... at the worst he is sure to get a few bones or feathers!

He keeps scratching his claws impatiently on the tree-trunk; attempts also to clamber up, but soon gives it up as hopeless.

Suddenly his spine tingles with fear; he hears the old crow’s hateful, angry shout—he scurries away and hides in the cornfield.

Black, also, jumps up hurriedly. He leaps out of the nest and clings to the trunk beneath, while with flattened ears he peers scowlingly into the air....

Yes, there is the beast, hanging above him with its black wings outstretched. It opens its beak and shrieks mockingly down at him. It’s black, glittering eyes follow him viciously, totally unabashed by his own raging, murderous glare.

“Madness” reaches a difficult fork in the tree and hesitates....

The crow instantly seizes the opportunity!

Conscious of its superiority in the air, it hurtles down upon him. The cunning bird has long ago noticed that Black is an earthbound animal—and now he has been so foolhardy as to leave the ground and venture up into his opponent’s hunting-ground—yes, into its very nest—he should soon be made to regret his insolence!

The old crow is also strongly influenced by the prospect of an easy victory and a good feast afterwards. With all its might it fastens its claws in the black cat’s shoulder.

The shock shakes Black from the fork, but he does not lose his balance; he just slides down backwards until he reaches an out-jutting branch. Clinging to this with his forepaws, he uses his back legs to such good effect, that the crow is forced to let go his hold.

The kitten feels no fear; on the contrary, he is filled with hate. The fury of madness flames in his eyes, and a white scum begins to froth round his mouth.

The crow sits just before him on the branch, making vicious pecks at his nose and eyes in the hope of overbalancing him. Suddenly Black gathers his back legs beneath him and, in the same moment that his enemy makes a fresh dart at him, launches himself forward.

The old crow is swept helplessly backwards by the reckless fury of the assault. The next moment they are both whirling through the air towards the ground.

Black, however, knows nothing of this. He is utterly engrossed in the large, warm piece of meat, into which he now plunges his hind claws also, biting and tearing all the while at the bird’s neck-feathers with his short, pointed teeth.

They crash to the earth ... but continue fighting with unabated fury, wrestling and rolling over and over, feathers and fur-tufts flying in all directions.

The crow caws hoarsely, and struggles to break away from the kitten, whose fighting prowess it has so disastrously underestimated.

With widespread tail-feathers and frantically flapping wings it tries in vain to regain its feet, and shake off its maddened little opponent. It bites and pecks unceasingly at Black’s fur, aiming cunningly at the soft places; for it knows by instinct the cat’s most vulnerable points—eyes and nose.

But Black does not budge until the last breath is squeezed from the crow’s lifeless body.

“Madness,” having killed his foe, straight-way sits down and begins gnawing its head. At the sound of the crunching several of the other kittens, who have watched terror-stricken the great black clump flutter through the air, understand at last the nature of the situation.

Big rushes to the spot with giant leaps; Grey sneaks cautiously after and springs upon the spoil, as if she herself had made the coup. “Terror” swaggers from his hiding-place and fixes his teeth in a wing, the toughness of which almost shakes his conviction that he is the very devil of a fellow!

CHAPTER NINE

THE CANARY

Round the outskirts of the farm the wallflowers crowd in full bloom, flaming and glowing in the nearly risen sun.

A little fox-coloured cat curls in and out among the flowers, sniffing the yellow goose-grass and the purple thyme. With its own inimitable deftness it avoids the dew.

It follows a human “spoor,” the pursuit of which its big brother has long since abandoned on account of its acid smell.

Red reaches a garden; she enters—and now she scents spoor after spoor, all of which lead along the hedge towards a heap of branches, where they stand still for a long time.

She makes, as usual, a thorough investigation, sniffing each single stone and leaf; but this time she is unlucky, and fails to remark a little grey-brown partridge, which now, for the third year in succession, hatches its eggs under the branches on the opposite side of the hedge.

Here, in the leafy soil, the bird has formed its nest. The maid had found it one day when hoeing the weeds from the path, and now she goes there every day to look after her bird.

The ceaseless, soothing rustle of the poplar-leaves and the hollow, satisfied purring of the rye filter through the hedge and distract the scavenger’s attention. Then she surprises a dragon-fly with the morning dew still on its wings....

Suddenly a burst of chirping and whistling streams out from an open window: a bright yellow canary hops joyfully in its wire-bound cage.

Not a single “human” to be seen or heard! Red leaves the dragon-fly to work out its own salvation and wriggles like a worm towards the unsuspecting bird.

But how can she capture it?

Ah, that is her specialty! Out in the wilds she fails time after time; she is not quick enough, not bold enough, not sure enough! She does not understand how to work; but she is a genius at thieving!

The fear of detection stimulates her special powers and characteristics to an incredible degree. During these brief periods she becomes far more cunning and far more ferocious than any of the other kittens.

If only the bird could fly up and away—she would be foiled at once! Or if it could only keep calm and remain sitting in the middle of its perch in its safe, wire-bound cage—all her efforts would be useless.

But the terrified canary begins to flutter about wildly—and Red’s tactics make her still more confused.

The cat keeps jumping from one side to the other; and then up on the top of the cage and down again....

The more maddened and confused the poor bird becomes, the calmer and more composed is the cat. With cold-blooded precision she waits until her victim comes within reach, then thrusts her strong paw against the cage. The thin wires separate, and through the aperture her scythe-like claws impale the canary and haul it towards her. One mouthful and it is gone!

Now for flight....

Like a streak of sunlight she glides along the window-sill and leaps to the ground—while sparrows from the gutter fight for the yellow feather, which the warm summer breeze loosens from her whiskers and bears aloft.

Once in the garden she gets up speed, scurries along the hedge, through into the cornfield, and so along the hedge again.

But why run? No shout or bark breaks the silence ... it does not look as if mankind’s four-legged police have seen her this time!

BOX AND THE RED COMMUNIST

Red became more and more reckless—and the wretched Box, who often saw her from his kennel, suffered the agonies of Tantalus!

His defeat in the manure-well had not reformed the cat-nihilist. He was still in the mood for war, and bent upon taking a bloody revenge.

For two whole weeks he has been chained up—but now the farmer’s wife herself resolved to take him in hand. His constant assaults on all cats, and especially his occasional outbreaks on her own, have for a long time given her great annoyance.

Every day he spends several hours sitting in a basket of hay in the kitchen together with five little newly-born kittens, which crawl squeaking round his legs and body. By this treatment they hope to make him accustomed to cats!

He is watched very closely; the slightest suspicious movement on his part brings a crack on the head from ladle or poker. The little ones also treat him with the utmost disrespect: they hiss at him and spit right in his face!

When the “lesson” is over for the day and he is shut out of the kitchen, his sensitive mind is in such a turmoil that he scarcely knows what he is doing. The most weird things happen: he sees cats everywhere—the sun itself turns into a huge, shining cat-face—and with hair on end and tail between his legs he makes a frantic charge towards it....

One day just after his lesson Box meets a little red cat-devil out in the garden with an eel-skin in its mouth.

Black cats and grey cats were bad enough—but red cats turned him into a raving maniac!

He chases after the thief, who makes for the rye-field. The cheeky little red-skin does not trouble to abandon her “catch,” and even has the sangfroid to stop in her flight to dig it down!

The delay was almost fatal—and had she not been lucky enough, when crossing a strip of fallow ground on her way to the cornfield, to run across Grey Puss, who was stalking young peewits, there is little doubt as to how things would have ended.

The old she-cat, realizing the state of affairs, unhesitatingly takes her kitten’s place. She runs right across Box’s nose and inveigles him after her into the cornfield. To do battle in the open is not her intention at all; she knows far subtler tactics!

Once among the corn, she quickly contrives to lose sight of the dog; and then lies down in ambush, waiting an opportunity to attack in the rear.

Box is not smart enough to suspect her design. Feeling, as always, that he is the undisputed lord of the fields, he rushes about barking angrily and aggressively. Matters are taking their usual course, he thinks!

That devil of a cat has of course hidden herself somewhere, and imagines his nose cannot find her—as if a cat were not the simplest of all creatures to track down.... Why, every straw touched by a cat simply stank!

Box is easy to deceive, and runs right into the trap set for him by the little field tiger.

He has not the slightest idea how it happened—but this he knows: that the clawed she-devil is sitting on his back again, and is already tearing his skin to shreds.

His howls are so loud, and Grey Puss’ growls so deep and threatening, that they are heard at the burial-mound. The kittens start up from their day-doze and, fully understanding what is taking place, begin to strut about with stiff legs and erect tails, uttering little half-growls at intervals. “Madness” goes one better: he makes off through the corn towards the scene of action....

He is a real little cat-sportsman!

THE SMOKE-DOG

The nihilist was really beginning to reform. What the farmer’s wife failed to achieve with her dog lessons, Grey Puss succeeded in doing with her needle-like claws.

But Box had his allies!

One Sunday afternoon, when the farm hands felt the time hang heavily, one of them suggested a visit to the burial-mound. Box was always running out there and barking at something—probably there was a fox in the hole.

To be prepared for emergencies, one of the men snatched up an armful of hay, and off they went, the dog dancing excitedly in front. Box, who understood at once what was on foot, felt fearfully important—and the moment the mound came in sight he set up a mighty war-cry; and by so doing gave the kittens plenty of warning.

For a long time the inhabitants of the mound lay listening to the loud barking; then they heard the dull tramp of “humans,” and a little later the crackling of hay—and now a huge, foul-smelling creature entered the tunnel.

Slowly and silently it crept forward; dirty and grey, it swayed and swelled; soon it completely filled the passage.

Grey Puss growled threateningly and crouched low on the ground, her face towards the oncoming monster. Big-kitten lay at her side, ready to lend instant assistance; while “Madness” hissed and bared his teeth, prepared to fight to the death.

He had fought with moles, with rats, and even with a crow—but never with an opponent which stared so keenly back as this one. Although he could not see its eyes in the gloom, the smoke-dog’s glare made his own smart until they watered, so that he had to keep wiping them dry with his forepaw.

Now the mysterious beast was upon them! “Madness” saw his mother spring to her feet—and he rushed valiantly towards the enemy, his mouth opened wide to seize it by the throat. Instead, he himself was seized by the throat! He had to open his mouth still wider; he felt as if his tongue were being torn out; he coughed and spluttered; a suffocating feeling racked his nose; he could not draw breath; his nostrils pricked and smarted as if clutched by the monster’s invisible claws. Snorting and sneezing, he turned and fled for his life.

He has managed to escape; luckily the monster could not hold him! Also, it does not drive him to frenzy, like that confounded old crow, by jabbing at his tender whiskers all the time. It is more merciful, and allows him to retreat in peace.

He regains his breath and is almost himself again. He rubs his head well with both forepaws and prepares for another attack. This time he is determined not to run away—and he shakes his head up and down to see where he is.

Fortunately for little “Madness” as well as for “Terror,” who together with Grey and White lay crouched in a corner of the tomb, their eyes flashing green with fright ... fortunately indeed for the whole happy family, the “smoke-dog” abruptly ceased barking its stinking breath down towards them.

The bundle of hay brought by the labourers was consumed. They could have procured more easily enough—for there was plenty of corn round the hill, and it lay in sheaves—but they had found out by now that smoke was there in abundance—what was lacking was a draught to carry the smoke down into the hole.

And besides, what if they did manage to suffocate the beast—they would never be able to get it out and skin it; so that there would be no pelt to make an odd shilling or two out of! What was the use of it all?

Well, after all, they had killed time for a couple of hours ... and they threw themselves on their backs and began to play with Box, stroking his back and ears. Yes, he was a fine dog! “Here, Box, Box!”—and they smacked their trouser-legs—“seize cat, seize cat!”

That day was the last the kittens spent in the old viking-grave!

Just as once before in their lives Grey Puss had rescued them from the willow stump, so did she rescue them now from the burial-mound.

This time it was so simple! They knew all about it in advance—and she had only to place herself at their head and lead on....

They left the Hill Farm’s fertile fields, and crossed right over to the other side of the village. There, near a disused peat-pit, they found a dilapidated turf-house, in the deserted loft of which they made their home.

CHAPTER TEN

THE BEST CAT

Big-cat knew the neighbourhood thoroughly for a distance of at least two miles in every direction.

Along fence and ditch, which were his hunting-paths, he crept in search of his prey....

Then he disappeared in a cornfield, and commenced his laborious stalking operations, the thick forest of corn-stalks making constant demands on his skill.

The green, brown-jointed stems stood quivering and swaying in the wind; their withered, rust-spotted leaf-tips scratched his nose and poked him in the eyes, while inflicting constant torture to his soft, sensitive moustache. But once in the field he was unmindful of such trifles, and with noiseless steps he stole along utterly absorbed, like the true sportsman he was, in the breathless exaltation of the chase.

He was alone with Nature ... and in his ears sounded her unique harmonies: the swishing of the wind through the poplar-top—that full, rich music with its sharp undertone which could only be fully appreciated by senses as finely attuned as his—and the thin, eternal seething of the barley or the rattling of the oats, were to him the earth’s song of love; he was its best cat, its greatest and happiest hunter!

He felt in touch with Nature; inspired by her music to great deeds.... Tiny red ladybirds with black-spotted body-shields wandered up and down the corn; and when he stopped to think, or to peer ahead through the waving green multitude of straws, he could see the little red fox-tongue of the poppy and the rough-haired cornflower’s deep blue snake’s-eyes. At intervals the white marguerite flashed like a lark’s breast momentarily into view, fixing his gaze for one fleeting moment with hypnotic attraction.

The depths of the corn vibrated with mystery.... Sounds which lived and died before he could guess their maker, thronged his ears on every side! Uncanny things happened out here in the jungle of the summer corn—he felt sure of it!

A sudden rustling followed by a crashing retreat sounds in front of him; it is the corn shrieking under the foot of a fleeting hare! Presently a loud turmoil in the air breaks for the moment Nature’s harmonious melody: he starts up, and the nervous twitching of his whiskers betrays his overwrought condition; soon he hears the warning call of an approaching partridge—and now he recognizes the noise, and sits down again while his sensitive nerve-strings gradually resume their normal vibration.

Finally, when a long-legged frog, panic-stricken at his approach, leaps with its cold body right into his face, he has, fortunately, recovered from his previous shock, and continues calmly on his way.

A large flock of tame pigeons from the farm sweep past just overhead, bringing a glow to his eyes. Soon afterwards he hears the flap of their wings as they land among the peas. In the flock are white, red, and blue pigeons....

His body sinks to the ground. Now is the chance to prove that he is a born master-hunter. He feels his pulse hammer and his heart thump!

After a quarter of an hour’s stalking he pokes his head out of a heap of cut-down peas. He is panting for breath with a half-open mouth, and his eyes shine with a greenish light. His muscles are tense to the uttermost—the great thing now is not to surrender to his exhaustion and so spoil everything he has already done....

The pigeons rise and float round in a circle—a habit they have—and the next moment a dazzling white turbit flaps within reach.

No need for him to spring; he just lashes out and hooks three of his curved claws into its breast! The claws go in easily enough; but they will not come out again so willingly! In fact, the more frantically the victim struggles to get loose, the more firmly his nails seem to hold; they literally stick to everything they touch. Now his jaws flash forward with their strong muscles—and the pigeon gives up the ghost at the first bite!

With the spoil in his mouth Big-cat retires hurriedly into a recess between two burdock plants; here he devours his catch.

“MADNESS” AND THE OWL

In the evening it is brother Black’s turn!

Reckless as “Madness” was in the daytime, it was nothing to what he became when darkness fell. The moment the sun had set, his claws itched to be out on the warpath....

At first he captured maybugs and grasshoppers; but when the darkness began to gather he prepared for serious work. From the top of the turf-house roof or from the brow of some hill he peered out over the landscape, listening: were there “humans” or dogs about?

Worming and creeping between molehills and grass-stems he made his way, stopping at frequent intervals to look round or listen. Where did the lark go to bed? Where did the partridges assemble? He was not in the least afraid of weasels and stoats; he let fly at them with his claws, spitting and hissing....

One night when the sky is lowering and the clouds are scudding he goes out as usual. He moves along on his soft, noiseless paws like a part of the silent darkness itself. The owl over in the village copse hoots hideously, making other creatures rush into hiding; but Black does not hide; the sound makes his blood rage!

He steals into the copse, choosing the leafless places near the boundary hedge and along the paths. “Ow!” Now he will be quite lame and crippled; for he is compelled to remain motionless and silent at the very moment he steps on a sharp-pointed stone.

The next second he is crouching flat on the ground, his ears directed ahead.... Something is moving in front of him!

Oh, it is only the little baby hare which he has seen several times already! It gambols round him—until the owl dives out of the darkness and blots out the hare with its black wings. Then it utters that diabolical shriek again. Black goes mad; it calls to him, he feels; it pulls him ... and he hurls himself forward—to be reduced to sheer spitting and spluttering at the sight that confronts him.

A cat like himself, but with feathers and wings, rolls a beaked head forward out of the bundle before him! It hoots mournfully, like the wind sighing among the giant stones—and tears his nose with its claws....

Black, also, blows himself out and glares fiercely at the enemy, while his tail whips restlessly to and fro. He is suddenly a cat of nine tails standing there! What is more, his body does not stand on all fours; only the two hind legs and the left forepaw bear its weight—his right forepaw is, as usual, slightly raised ready for his lightning spring!

Then his face twists sideways, and he intones the war-chant which he has inherited from his father: “Auw-auw-auw—o-o-o—ttt!”

Can he capture spoil by hanging back and hesitating? Can he gain meat by being afraid and running away?...

His thoughts drive him to frenzy!

He flies at the owl, and transfixes one of its ears. He attacks again—and the flying cat decides that things are getting too warm. It swings itself up to a branch and begins also to wail its war-cry:

“Auw-auw-auw....”

“Oo-oo-hoo-oo....”

“Tt-ttt....”

During the pauses Black devours the best parts of the hare.

THE HANGER-ON

Black is a fighter: brave, daring, sometimes foolhardy; but “Terror” is, and always will be, a hanger-on.

When all danger is past, and the owl has flown away, he sneaks forward and receives his usual share of the booty. He assists the angry warrior in every possible manner: licks his wounds, rubs him dry, and offers him his stomach as a nose-warmer.

Unfortunately for the little fellow, he does not understand in the least how to profit by the talents bestowed on him by Mother Nature; neither as humorist nor as weather-prophet can he earn his daily bread.

All the more desperately, therefore, he clings to his brother; seeking, by means of constant vigilance and servility, to make himself indispensable to the fighter.

A few days later they are both lying asleep under a hedge, when “Terror” hears a twittering and sits up. Raising his head, he peeps cautiously out over the grass, and sees a blackbird catching worms on the turf.

Just then another blackbird joins the first, forcing Tiny to duck down hurriedly.

While still in his hiding-place, he turns his head slowly to one side, pushing his ears at the same time, if possible, still farther forward. The slightest movement, he knows, is dangerous if done openly....

Now he is ready to let his yellow orbs, like twin searchlights, sweep in a new direction; again he sticks up his head.

“Hurrah!” He almost jumps with joy at the sight that meets his eyes. The freshly harvested pea-field before him is literally carpeted with small hedge-sparrows! Oh, how his heart beats! He can feel its ticking in every toe-tip ... small hedge-sparrows, the best of all! Um-m-m!

His sinews twist and stretch in sympathy with his mental exaltation, and his coat bulges with his expanding muscles.... Blackbirds on one hand, sparrows on the other—and now a little dike-chat just overhead! He can’t resist craning his neck to watch the little dear.... How his stalking qualities are being tested to-day!

But it is too big a job for “Terror”; he must wake Black—and he touches the slumbering god gingerly with his paw.

“Madness” laboriously raises one sleep-laden eyelid; and at first is inclined to thrash the other for his supposed clumsiness. But upon catching sight of his assistant’s strained expression he understands that something good to eat must be in the neighbourhood.

He jumps up and looks round.

Then, to Tiny’s almost tearful amazement and disappointment, the great man, instead of holding a council of war, curls up again and goes to sleep.

Black is an old hand; he knows that birds are best stalked after dark!

GREY ON THE WARPATH

Over hill and dale as far as the eye can reach stretch line after line of stacked-up corn-sheaves. The golden oats and the light-yellow barley and wheat, have fallen asleep at last—heavy and listless under the clear, blue harvest sky. The spring’s soft call to growth and love, the summer’s vibrant note of lust and passion, have worked their will and ripened every ear. Out here in the fields, in Nature’s sun-baked forcing-house, are none—none who have not found and drunk to its dregs the strong, sweet wine of fruitful life. They have sprung into being, grown up, fructified—now they bring forth their seed and yield themselves to fate....

One sunny afternoon, while the spiders spin their webs and the pimpernels blink their little red flowers, Grey sets out hunting through the rye stubble.

Suddenly she hears the squeak of a mouse from a heap of rakings—and becomes instantly stiff and rigid, her ears forward and tail bent.

The mice are indeed holding a feast in the rakings; the company is joyous and boisterous at the sight of such a good spread.

With shining eyes Grey cautiously lifts her forepaw and moves it slowly, very slowly, forward; silently she puts it down on the ground—and now she brings her back leg forward too, raising it high in the air to avoid the stubble. But just as she is about to put it down, the mice become suddenly silent—and she has to remain for a long time in her uncomfortable position.

At last the happy squeaking begins again—and Grey completes her step and commences a fresh one.

It takes her a whole quarter of an hour to move two yards; but to her it seems no longer than a minute.

When stalking, she falls into the most extraordinary attitudes: she crooks her back, stretches forward her neck, and curls like the bed of a stream round stray stones and loose ears of corn; but at last she is so close that the mouse-feast is directly under her nose.

Noiselessly she leaps forward ... plunges into the heap of straw; makes one swift, fatal stroke with her forepaw—and pulls out a small, earth-coloured mouse, which she puts straight into her mouth.

As she walked away she felt and looked very proud of her victory. True, she would have liked to torture her victim; but she had been too ravenous to wait!

It was soon an everyday event for Grey to capture a mouse! She, the little, short-legged, big-eared kitten, who was herself rather like a big rat, had become indeed the terror of the small nibblers.

But she had another string to her bow!

For hours she would lie in wait by the side of the big bog-pool, and fish the gleaming shell-fish out of the water with lightning strokes of her paw. Regularly in the early morning she would creep down to the pond, and sit on the extreme edge, without paying the least attention to the splashing of the small waves. On one occasion she even plunged head first into the water—and came up again with a large, wriggling carp in her mouth.

She was not only a mouse-cat, but a fish-cat too!

THE THIEF-CAT

While the others sneaked round in copse and cornfield, following their crooked, winding hunting-paths, Red-kitten usually made a bee-line to the nearest house or farm. Sometimes, at rare intervals, she ventured into the village itself. She liked best to approach by means of the high road and the path through the churchyard ... but it had to be very late at night, when it was quite dark!

In broad daylight she preferred keeping under cover as much as possible, and following cattle-paths, wheel-tracks, and ditches. The nearer she approached to the village, the shorter and slower became her steps—until at last she sat down to consider matters and spy out the land.

She was cautious almost to absurdity; but caution as well as courage were necessary if she were to succeed. She knew that the village bristled with obstacles: dogs by the dozen to chase her, and other cats who would bar her progress from sheer evil nature and jealousy. But life is full of such worries!

She had developed a taste for “kitchen-game”: roast herring and lumps of eel, boiled meat and delicious-smelling ham! She found that kind of thing much easier to capture than mice or birds. She regarded cream, especially, as a great delicacy—and her red-striped coat could therefore often be seen where this brand of “kitchen-game” lay in hiding.

The bailiff kept a sharp lookout for her. Once he kept watch the whole day from morning till evening outside his back door, where an old, dilapidated meat-safe of his had recently been plundered. In it lay a freshly roasted pork chop, the smell of which he hoped would attract the thief.

About noon, however, the bailiff became hungry and went indoors to refresh himself after his morning’s tedious exertions—and when he came out again half an hour later to resume his watch, he was just in time to see the “red devil” vanish through the garden with the pork chop in her jaws.

Red had scented the “kitchen-bird” in its cage on the wall and had broken her way in; well for her that she had heard the footsteps in time....

Whenever she found anything that suited her fancy she took it at once. To do otherwise, it seemed to her, would be stupidity—and of stupidity no one had yet accused the thief-cat!

WHITE-KITTEN AND THE CALF

In the neighbourhood of the pool also, where the red baby calf was tethered, autumn began to wave its withered hand. The great burdock plants were dying of consumption; their huge flat leaves were faded and contracted. When White brushed against them in passing, they crackled irritably.

White-kitten came down almost daily to the pool; the little red ruminant and she became quite friendly after a while. They rubbed noses together and galloped away at full speed, the calf in front with its stiff, clumsy hops, and White just behind.

One day, as the calf rose to its feet, the kitten seized hold of the tuft at the end of its tail and let herself be dragged some distance along the ground.

After that, “joy-rides” at the end of the calf’s tail became one of her greatest delights.

She knew exactly when the calf’s owner—the small farmer from the cottage by the side of the bog—came out with the milk-pail; but she had not yet summoned up courage to greet him. But as soon as the man went away again she sneaked forward to lick up any stray milk scum.

She felt enormously attracted by the man—and long after he had left she wandered about feeling a strange longing to make his acquaintance.

One day she found an old brown switch, which had been thrown on the field one winter with the manure, and had now taken root in the earth with its weather-beaten remaining twigs sticking up in the air. White-kitten ran and rubbed herself against this broom every time the man had been with the calf!

In spite of the wild environment in which she had grown up, White was quite tame. Her dreams always centred round what seemed to her the greatest luxuries in life: dry shelter and delicious heat. Although she had never been inside a house, she was constantly obsessed with the idea of a warm stove with glowing sides, before which she lay curled up roasting herself.

One morning, when the crofter was bringing milk to the calf, she could hold back no longer. She left the shelter of the dock-leaves and hopped quickly past him—but stopped for a moment before bolting into cover again.

The man called to her as she went; and then, softening his voice and drawing out the sound alluringly, he repeated, “Pu-s-s! Pu-s-s!”

It was the first time the kitten had ever heard these human sounds—and the new, delightful music charmed her. She felt her trust in mankind growing....

And the next time the man called she went nearer still.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE KITTENS HUNT BY NIGHT

The September moon rises red-gold and majestic from the mists of the horizon, and lights up the harvested fields where the five big kittens are stalking their prey. They no longer hunt in a body, but are spread out all over the field, working independently....

A soft, many-hued light bathes the undulating hills; only the hollows and valleys are gloomy and colourless. Voices from the surrounding homesteads echo through the motionless air, mingling with the mooing of calves and the bleating of lambs. The guns of the duck-shooters drone faintly from the marsh. But here among the barley stubble where the partridge coveys settle, all is still and silent....

Along one of the many paths left by the broad wheel of the reaping-machine Grey-kitten glides, her whole soul absorbed in the rustling of invisible mice....

Big is out after partridge; he hugs the edge of the ditch, stopping frequently to peer over the tall golden-rod and the knap-weed’s empty pods. He sees the coveys of partridge running to and fro among the rakings; the young males are quarrelling, while the old cock looks on and crows. His aim now is to find out where they mean to “pack” for the night.

Black hangs about near a drain-pipe in which lives a fox-cub, with whom he hopes to pick a quarrel! In the wood a few days ago the cub had bagged a sparrow from right under his nose—an event which upset the kitten so terribly that he has quite lost his appetite!

A little way off a flock of terrified sheep stand gaping at him; they have heard his weird hissing and spitting....

But on the top of the hill Tiny sits on a stray sheaf and makes a grab with his paws at every maybug that hums its way past. He is waiting patiently for Black and Big to make a haul—when he hopes to get something more satisfying to eat.

The moon, which immediately after rising had dived into some black clouds, now thrusts its yellow-green face from its sombre garments and stares fixedly at White-kitten, who has just finished a cheese-rind left behind from the harvesters’ lunch.

White then discovers a tuft of grass, on which an old woman has recently been sitting—and begins rolling over and rubbing her back on the place.

Red is nowhere to be seen—probably out on one of her usual thieving raids in the village.

The full moon again veils herself; and then, peeping out for a moment, silhouettes the form of an old cat on the turf-house roof. The cat scrambles down the thatch and leaps to the ground—then sneaks off in the direction away from the kittens.

The kittens are now seldom seen together: each spends the day according to his bent, flitting along ditch and hedge, or nosing around farm and outhouse. They all find their own food, using the means best suited to their different natures and capabilities.

THE DEATH OF BOX

Grey Puss becomes lazier and lazier, and no longer takes the slightest interest in her offsprings’ food difficulties. Whereas formerly she used often to go hungry herself in order to feed her kittens, she now almost invariably devours her catch herself. Yes, it has even happened that, upon surprising one of the children with an extra tempting mouse, she has taken rather than given! She behaves all at once as if she were not their mother at all.

Through the regiment of withered thistle-tops lining the path by the marsh she patters peacefully along to the broad high road, where her grey coat soon disappears in the twilight.

From the opposite direction Box comes walking dejectedly. He is now no longer the terror of the cat neighbourhood; and besides, at the moment there burns inside him the strong but unsated fire of love. After a three days’ fruitless vigil outside the vicarage gates of a distant village he is now returning home.

Without thought of evil he slinks leisurely along the main road towards home, and has just reached the bridge over the stream when he finds himself suddenly face to face with the “claw-beast,” who emerges from the shadow at the side of the bridge with the intention of crossing the road. Box, from force of habit, gives the alarm, and charges courageously forward—the cat straightens her legs and becomes all at once big and glistening, at the same time exploding with spits and hisses....

When too late Box recognizes the ferocious creature!

He has lately succeeded in convincing himself that he no longer cares for gadding about the fields after cats and other “vermin.” And now, suddenly remembering his dearly bought experience in connection with this field-tiger’s claws, he makes his good resolution an excuse for shunning the she-devil. The stream is handy—and he is not afraid of water.

True, his canine self-respect protests, but only for a moment; a glimpse of the curved yellow-green claws, whose capacity for inflicting pain he knows so well, gives him a sudden sinking feeling—and the next moment he has plunged into the water.

But he is mistaken in thinking that Grey Puss will not follow him!

The brave little mother-cat, overwrought as she is with the strain and anxiety of the summer, is transformed into a fury at the sound of her old tormentor’s ill-natured bark; she springs after him, just as in his time he has sprung after her—and seeing him like a little floating island beneath her, she is seized with the devilish inspiration to land on that island.

With a beautifully judged spring she lands with all four claw-bunches smack on the dog’s forehead; and he disappears in a long, sudden dive which stifles his howls of misery.

Now follows an extraordinary life-and-death struggle!

Box is quite mad with terror....

Every time he shows himself above water the cat climbs up on his back from behind and scratches and bites him so mercilessly that he has no choice but to dive again.

He treads water, bristles up, and arches his back; while Grey Puss spits, gurgles, and splutters. He makes an attempt to bite; but a claw plunges into his snout and stops there....

He puts up a forepaw to free his snout; but a lightning bite paralyses the paw....

He is breathing water now instead of air. ... He is slowly losing consciousness—but the claw still hangs fast....

He flounders no longer; he sinks, but this time he does not rise.... The poor old cat-nihilist is reformed at last!

HOME-SICKNESS

Now that Box was dead Grey Puss had only mankind to fear!

She hated mankind, which surpassed even her in cunning and rapacity—and yet, she could never forget that she had once been a member of the human household.

Mankind was her strong, invincible rival! Once for all, on the occasion when it had lured her into the sack and flung her into the water, it had imbued her with such terror of its incredible treachery that she could not bear to hear, smell, or see it. But none the less in the depths of her soul she admired it immensely....

She hated it, so that she could have torn its throat asunder, and yet she loved it so intensely that she erected her tail and purred contentedly at the mere thought of rubbing her back once more against a pair of trousered legs.

This never-ceasing struggle between her own personality and the instinct inherited from a thousand generations of man-serving ancestors was at times so intense that on many a still, dark night she had sneaked home to the farm fully determined to remain; but at daybreak the rough sounds of wooden clogs and men’s voices broke the spell, and she had fled again to the fields....

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE DEMON MOUSER

The crofter lived down by the marsh, where he owned some fields with blackish-brown soil, which he was ploughing for the autumn sowing....

The ploughing progressed spasmodically; for he had only one horse, and that a small one, that had to stop every few minutes for breath.

“Get along!” said the man to it lethargically.... “Gee up!”

But the horse declined; it considered that it should be allowed a little longer respite.

“Gee up!” came the order again—and now the man took hold of the reins which hung loose on the horse’s back.

The nag continued to breathe heavily. The whip had to be produced.

“Get along!... Gee up!”

The old crock lunged out behind and gave a hop into the air—the preliminaries to starting.

At last they got going again.... Slowly, very slowly, the ploughshare pushed up the wet earth. The horse pulled itself together and strained at the harness until the traces quivered; it lunged with its legs and threw its weight forward, making the plough go faster and faster, so that the little man had to hurry to keep pace, and once or twice had to run.

Things went like a house afire for about twenty yards; then the horse stopped abruptly—time for another rest!

“First-rate!” thought the crofter—and rested also.

Thus, each perfectly understanding the other, they ploughed away patiently the whole day long....

One evening the crofter stopped earlier than usual.... The heavens were ablaze and the horizon seethed with flame; the last remnants of day were being cremated!

Having settled his assistant comfortably in the stall, he set out over the hill to a meadow where he had grazing rights.

A little later he appeared again leading a small red cow-calf, his bent back and bowed legs silhouetted gnome-like against the sunset.

The weather was too cold now, besides being too rough and stormy, to leave young cattle out after dark!

After bolting the calf in, he stands a moment outside his door and reads from a scrap of newspaper. Suddenly he notices a slight movement at his feet, and, looking down, sees a little white kitten with arched back and lifted tail rubbing itself affectionately against his wooden clogs.

“Well I never! Where did you spring from?”

White becomes nervous at hearing a human voice and hops away a little. The crofter bends down and makes coaxing noises to her.

She comes nearer again, and now she feels a hand grasp her round the body—how deliciously it tickles!...

The little farmer’s house, which formed one with the stall and barn, was overrun with mice. Of an evening when he sat reading they would often come peeping over the edge of the table and crawl over his trousers.

He never told how they behaved when he was in bed!

At intervals he brought the farm-cat into the rooms; but it never had the faintest notion of what was required, and rushed about terrified, knocking everything down until it was let out again.

White-kitten, therefore, was not unwelcome!

She behaved at once as if she had lived in a house all her life! She learned to chase after mice on the chest-of-drawers without overturning the shell-mounted frame containing the photograph of the man in his soldier’s uniform, and to catch flies on the table without stepping into the dripping-dish or tea-mug.

She was industrious, affectionate, and anxious to please, besides which, she knew when to keep out of the way when not wanted. In fact, she behaved in every respect just as the slave nature in man prefers his dependents to behave!

The mice soon disappeared completely! Not because they were captured, but because they could not endure the constant persecution....

And White was named the “demon mouser!”

EXIT RED

Sulphur-yellow, gall-green shafts mingle with the scarlet of the sunrise, and slowly wrest a large quadrangular farmhouse from the cloudy October dawn’s foul wet mists.

Outside the cow-stall, an old-fashioned milk-jar with its narrow neck appears out of the grey dawn. The milk-woman uses it every morning to take a pint of milk home to her children. A few traces of milk still cling to the bottom—enough, at any rate, to tempt a sweet-tooth!

The woman is inside milking, when Red comes sneaking along the barn, catches sight of the jar, sticks her nose in, and smells distinctly the milk on the bottom. She rests her forepaws on the round, bulging body of the vessel, and tries hard to push her head through the narrow neck.

After several attempts she manages, by turning her head vigorously from side to side, to slide it in, her ears pressed tightly back and her furry cheeks brushing the smooth earthenware.

She has succeeded—and she licks the jar cleaner than it has ever been before since the day it was made.

Then she prepares to retreat. But now, suddenly, she cannot get her head out; her thick neck and gristly ears are wedged fast! She becomes flurried ... and instead of trying to wriggle out gently, she begins to tug and wrestle; with the result that she fixes her frightful mask more firmly still. She topples over on her side, and rolls about clawing dementedly at the stone cobbles—until at last she regains her feet and staggers blindly into the yard.

The weird figure is soon seen from one of the windows. Now they’ve got her at last!

They recognize her at once—so a sack is soon fetched and slipped over her hind parts. For now she shall be drowned!

Just then a rag and bone man turns into the yard.

Once or twice a year he comes and buys old rags and bottles, and all sorts of worthless rubbish.

The fellow at once notices the cat’s shining fox-red coat—and the quick-witted farmer conceives a brilliant idea. The fellow has cheated him so many times; now he shall be paid back in his own coin!

With a cautious tap of the hammer he releases the cat from the jar....

“Do you want to buy a splendid mouser?”

“You bet I do!” replies the ragged one ... it was just what he was looking for.

The farmer piled on the agony. “Yes, she’s a record killer! You will scarcely believe it, but just before you came into the yard, she nearly strangled herself capturing a mouse which had dived into this milk-jar!”

The rag and bone man was completely taken in; he bought the cat eagerly and immediately.

He put Red in his sack, and the two thieves left the yard together.

BIG-KITTEN TURNS WILD CAT

One autumn evening, as huge, billowy clouds are drifting across the orange-gold western sky, Big-cat wakes in his lair and feels the call to action. The noise of day has died from the fields, and the cows with their watching eyes have gone to rest for the night....

He slinks across naked, deserted fields, where the wild camomile lifts its cheerful face above the white-grey stubble. Like all great hunters, he feels the need of a constant change of hunting-grounds; hence his journey through the cold, dry September night, lighted by the pale, shining, half-grown moon.

Over hill and along hawthorn hedge he hurries; catches a lark in her nest, and a mouse by a daring leap from a post—and at daybreak lies down for his day’s rest behind a yellow grass-tuft in a dry, secluded gravel-pit.

Towards noon he is awakened by the sound of paws in the shingle. He should just have remained lying still among the grass—which was grey-yellow and withered black in colour, and not unlike his own marking—but he forgot himself and ran.

The big, spotted hound got quite a shock; he stepped for a moment and looked back. Two men with guns, one of whom was “Uncas’” master, were approaching, talking together and pulling at their pipes.

Uncas seized his opportunity and tore after the cat.

The men began shouting and whistling; but as far as the dog was concerned the die was cast. Nothing could stop him now—away he went at a wild gallop!

Just ahead, the river flows in a long, graceful curve, its cold, black waters scaring the yellow autumnal landscape.

Big knows the river well; he knows, too, that not even his jump can clear it. He therefore makes for the wooden bridge.

The main road crosses the bridge....

When the cat is half-way over, he feels the woodwork vibrate in a curious manner beneath his feet; he sees a spitting, humming, machine-animal whizzing towards him....

Just behind him is the dog, barking excitedly....

For a moment Big-cat hesitates; then, seeing no alternative, leaps bravely between the iron railings and falls with a splash into the river.

He sinks like a stone through the water, but the moment it closes over his head he commences kicking instinctively with his legs. At last he gets air again; he sees the sky above him. He swims mechanically—but believes that he is running through the water....

The motor-cycle rushed on over the bridge—the dog crossed its path; a howl, a crash, oaths and curses....

Meanwhile a dripping, bedraggled cat galloped away across the fields. He shook himself, and ran, and then shook himself again.... He has managed to come out on top as usual!

He kept on at full speed until he reached the boundaries of a large, private wood some distance away, by which time his fur was quite dry from his exertions. After several vain attempts he succeeded in scaling the tall, wooden palisade surrounding the wood, and, plunging in among the trees, soon came to a tumble-down game-keeper’s hut, in the loft of which he remained in comfort for a week.

From here he made excursions in all directions; but the old willow stump and the long, winding hawthorn hedge were no longer in sight to remind him to return, and with the disappearance of these and other landmarks the threads that bound him to his home snapped for ever.

He drifted farther and farther away out into the wide world, and finished his career as wild cat in a distant deer park.

THE HOME OF THE FISHERMAN

After leaving the village the main road rose over the brow of the hill and ran down again between rich, fertile fields until it crossed the river which hugged the valley.

At the bottom of the hill a small, idyllic brook had once flowed into the river, but it had dried up, leaving behind only the shallow watercourse, which now served as a drain.

The road crossed the river by means of a flint-paved bridge, and swung round a fisherman’s cottage before continuing farther across country.

The fisherman had been a widower for thirteen years, and he had lived in the house for twenty—so that he knew its ins and outs fairly well. A small garden and a few rods of ploughed land supplied potatoes for him and oats for his horse. Three or four times a week he drove round the countryside selling the fish he caught in the fjord. It was a long way for the horse to pull—sometimes as much as twenty-five or thirty miles a day; but in return the beast was often allowed to slack for several days on end.

The gables of the building faced east-west, and all its doors and its small windows opened towards the south.

The west end, which was nearest the road, formed the stall and pigsty—in which a pig was always grunting. The outhouse, consisting of woodshed and barn, was situated on the east, from which direction the winter storms usually raged. Between the two nestled the inhabited quarter, comprising corridor, tiny kitchen, and living-room.

For seven years it had been vouchsafed the fisherman to live in this room with his wife; then she died, leaving behind her seven children, who had long since deserted the parental roof. From the quiet, peaceful countryside to which their father clung with his whole nature, they had emigrated to the big town, which they could not imagine themselves leaving.

“I’ve had enough of all that fuss with children,” said the fisherman. “Thank goodness it’s over and done with!”

Now he lived totally alone. He kept the house in order himself, and made the food himself—and smoked his way with cheap tobacco through the long, winter evenings.

It was quite cosy in the living-room, where a pair of large pictures of himself and his wife when young hung on the wall, and where the inevitable soldier-photographs of the boys—who all later on became navvies or brick-layers—stood upon the chest-of-drawers. In the window beneath the short cotton curtains stood well-tended pot-plants on neat wooden stands.... It was all meagre enough, but decent and orderly.

In addition to the horse, which was the old man’s jewel, and the pig, which was treated as a son, he owned a little dog called Bibs. The latter guarded the house when his master was away.

Bibs reigned in the living-room. Outside—in the stall, barn, and loft—a cat was in command; but in reality the post was vacant, for old Peter, with his pale, lack-lustre eyes and moth-eaten tail, was now so decrepit and worn-out that he could no longer hear whether mice or other vermin scratched or not.

For fourteen years the cat had lived with the fisherman, who alleged that he was so intelligent that he understood what was said to him. For instance, if the cat sat by the stove and the man bent down and shouted, “Peter, get out!” he got up and went out.

He always ran to meet the fish-cart when it came home from the fishing-place laden with eels or herring—and as reward the fisherman would fling him a squab or a dab, or perhaps a small eel. He could recognize the horse’s trot from a great distance, and when it came in sight he miauwed with delight, opening his mouth so wide that one could see far down into his stomach.

In his palmy days he used to run a mile along the road to meet the cart—but now he could only manage a couple of hundred yards.

Peter was the apple of the fisherman’s eye, and Grey would never have found favour with him had not the old cat himself received his successor, when she suddenly walked in one freezing autumn morning, with the utmost graciousness.

For Grey-kitten was a lady, and old Mr. Peter’s ingrained tendency towards gallantry acquired new life at the sight of the pretty, little, long-eared pussy-cat. A golden gleam filled the fellow’s pale eyes, and the fisherman often saw the stiff, rheumatic old tyke sitting for hours at a time under a tree up which his new, agile little lodger had fled.

But one day when it is raining hard, Grey-kitten cannot escape from the old stink-pot; she has to run up into the hayloft.

Peter crawls up the ladder in pursuit, and Grey springs out of the window on to a headless poplar growing beside the house.

Peter, forgetting his age, makes a rash leap after her ... but misses his footing and falls into the water.

However, he is quickly on land again, where he sits down and waits faithfully under the tree in which the object of his senile affection is enthroned.

He shakes with cold, but endures bravely—and when the fisherman returns home in the evening, he finds his old comrade still sitting there, stiff and dead....

After that Grey inherited his office as a matter of course, and as time passed succeeded in discharging it entirely to her master’s satisfaction.

She was called “Puss” and “Pussy-girl”—and she had a busy time ridding the old, neglected hovel of mice. She soon made herself at home in the stall, barn, and loft, which were just as dark and dirty as the burial-mound and the willow bole.

One day, only six months later, she came running with her tail proudly hoisted, to meet the old fisherman as he was driving home, and jumped up beside him in the cart. And then, after the horse had been put in the stall and the fish-boxes unloaded, she was given two or three little eels or dabs.

Fish had always been her favourite food!

BLACK JOINS THE ARMY

At last “Madness” has succeeded in coming to grips with the young fox....

They do battle on a grassy field, bounded on one side by yellow straw and on the other by dried-up, rust-coloured clover.

Black crouches on three legs, swaying his doubled-up body, and prepares to give Reynard a sample of his patent attack, when suddenly the earth shakes with the beat of a horse’s hoof.

The beats come nearer ... and become quicker and quicker.

The two madcaps call a truce and listen....

The hoof-beats are coming straight towards them—and now they can see the head of a horse with its rider.

The young fox slips instantly into the nearest ditch—its instinct is sure—but Black, who feels bound to find a wood or tree, tears off along the path. With tail on one side he chases along, easily visible among the withered grass.

The horseman is an artilleryman from an adjacent garrison town, a young sergeant out exercising his colonel’s horse. The poor beast was so seldom allowed to let himself go—here was a splendid chance....

The speed of the cat, as it gallops along the path, infects the man; he digs his spurs deep in Tambourine’s sides, and away they go as hard as the horse can pelt.

Black puts his ears back and makes springs fully three times his own length. He feels like a hare in front of an express train. His eyes are magnetized to the smooth, open path before him; he cannot, if he would, leave it to plunge aside into the corn. A tree he must have—and trees are not found until the hedge is reached; already he can see one; his claws itch to bury themselves in its bark!

Suddenly he rolls over and over! His brain, which keeps running on trees, has just time to complete the thought, “Now, you’ve fallen down!” when a kick on the head knocks him senseless. He remains lying in the path, his whiskers twitching, his legs kicking spasmodically....

Tambourine, who has joyfully given every muscle full play during his reckless gallop, jumps clean over his victim, causing the supple rider to fling himself backwards in the saddle. The man catches a glimpse of what has happened, pulls up, turns, and dismounts.

“What a shame! Poor little beast!”

He picks up the cat by its tail between his forefinger and thumb, and turns its body round. It bleeds neither at the nose nor at the mouth, but it does not move a hair. The sergeant feels it to see whether any bones are broken, then holds it by the scruff and examines its yellow eyes. Yes, it must be dead, after all—probably from a hoof-kick.... Well, to blazes with the beast!

He is just about to fling it in the ditch when the cat’s smooth, jet-black coat catches his attention!

“By Jove, what a splendid skin! That’s sure to be useful!” And without further ado he opens the left saddle-bag and lets the lifeless “Madness” sink to the bottom.

The old saddle-bag is worn thin, and the inside seam nearest the horse is gaping; but what does it matter—a cat, and what’s more, a dead cat, is safe enough there!

And the man pulls the strap extra tight.

Tambourine has been ordered a good run this morning, so that he shall go quietly at the next morning’s general inspection—and when at last, sweating and frothing with dilated nostrils, he is walking homewards towards the barracks, the reins hang loose on his neck.

Suddenly he feels some pointed “spurs” prod him in the side....

The skittish thoroughbred, who shies at a mere touch of the curb, now receives one “spur” jab after another! He gives a leap, and bucks sideways like a flash of lightning, and the sergeant, who is totally unprepared, reels out of the saddle.

“Madness” has recovered consciousness, and, true to his nature, pays back the horse in his own coin. His disturbed state of mind, rendered still more frantic by the darkness of the saddle-bag, finds the necessary outlet in his claws and teeth.

Meanwhile, Tambourine, riderless and with flapping reins, gallops away to the barracks, where he is captured. He had probably bolted from the sergeant, they thought, while that worthy was swallowing a “corpse-reviver” at an inn!

“Give him a good rub down and afterwards let him have some water!” comes a roar from the office where the “Staff” sits and administers. He has heard the horse thundering round for some time, and now sticks his fat, bald head through the door....

The long-aproned stable orderly bangs his heels together with a “Very good, sir!” gives the hunter a couple of soothing pats on the flanks, and leads him away.

But the orderly nearly had a fit when, unsaddling the horse, he saw a coal-black cat flash out of one of the saddle-bags and leap towards him; he thought it was the evil one himself....

With a furious hiss “Madness” sprang over the man’s shoulder, ran along the side of the manger, and leapt out in the middle of the stable.... He was in a terribly battered state, and felt utterly confused by his new surroundings. The fall from the tree, which was the beginning of his misfortunes, seemed to have spirited him into another world. He hid himself in a corner under some hay, and spat out venomous oaths at all who approached.

When the sergeant returned home he came very near smashing in “Madness’” head with his sword—not unnaturally his feelings towards the cat were the reverse of friendly! But the battery commander, who came in at the moment and heard the story, regarded the black devil as sent from heaven.

Weren’t the old barrack stables simply swarming with rats and mice? It would be a splendid thing to have a cat which was worth its salt!

The tall, bony battery commander stood looking down searchingly at the savage, coal-black beast as it crouched glaring at him with its wicked, yellow-green eyes.... Suddenly with a ferocious scowl he thrust his long, heavy riding-boot right in the cat’s face.

But neither the scowl nor the boot frightened Black: a claw transfixed the patent leather, while sharp fangs bit into the uppers....

“Damn it, if he isn’t a soldier!” exclaimed the commander—and the cat’s fortune was made.

Living among these strong, healthy men Black performed prodigies of valour....

He wasn’t satisfied with catching one rat at a time—but usually managed one with each claw-bunch. Indeed, occasionally when someone took the trouble to shift the oat-bin for him, he had been know to secure a third with his jaws. He became less wild after a time, and would even allow himself to be stroked and picked up—and here, where the idea of madness was unknown, he was christened anew: they called him “Fizz.”

“TERROR” TURNS HOUSE-CAT

At the cross-roads some way from the village lived the midwife.

She was a slim, fair person, with large eyes and thick, curly hair.

She was not so fearfully old; but neither was she so fearfully young; in short, she was a lady in the prime of life.

She had never taken a husband to herself, although there had been plenty of suitors—the snug little home and the smart, pretty girl were tempting enough for anyone.

Why she had not married was the secret of her life; and everyone in the neighbourhood had tried to guess it!

One evening in late autumn, when storm and rain raged without, there came to her a little kitten in the last stages of exhaustion, which crept into the shelter of the outhouse and next morning introduced itself to her as a new arrival into the world.

It was extremely timid, but starving and hungry—it gulped down everything she placed before it.

She saw that it was a little spotted he-cat with almost as many colours as the rainbow, and with a tail so long that it could wind it round the neck like a feather-boa.

The midwife adopted “Terror,” not because she was particularly fond of cats, but because of late she had begun to feel so terribly lonely....

After Black’s departure from home Tiny had a very rough time. He was soon pursued by hunger, and there was no one there to help him, for his other brothers and sisters had also left. Even Grey Puss, who occasionally let him share her spoil, had vanished without trace.

One day, just as he is sneaking through the doorway of the turf-house—under whose mouldering thatch he still remains—he finds himself suddenly face to face with a tall, two-legged being who is too big for him to see all at once. The man throws his coat over him and he disappears as into the blackest night. He is squeezed and stifled, and meanwhile carried along—until at last he succeeds in diving head first through a long, dangling nozzle—a coat-sleeve.

Then he ran, and ran—and never knew what fate he escaped!

He hid in a turnip-field, where for a time he dragged out a wretched, half-starved existence. His lonely expeditions in company with Black had taught him to avoid the dwellings of mankind; and it was not until hunger conquered fear that he dared to enter the cottage.

His position as midwife’s cat suited “Terror” down to the ground—his complete inability to earn his own living excused him from rendering his mistress the slightest assistance!

Later on, the midwife discovered that she had a living barometer in the house—a fact which raised his value in her eyes enormously! She always consulted him before setting out on her duties.

As regards his humorous tendencies, they too came into their own—but not before a very painful accident occurred.

One day when the wind was playing with the outhouse door, “Terror” suddenly felt the door bite his tail! He whirled round immediately and let fly with his claws—that helped matters. The door opened its mouth and he was free!

But in spite of that, the tail still felt as if it were held fast; he ran round and round with a pain all over his body—and later on a red, swollen ring appeared round the appendage.

At last the tail-end withered away and fell off; and where the red ring had been, a tuft of hair sprouted over a black spot.

Tiny-kitten had become still tinier!

But his luxurious mode of living made his stomach fat and his body broad and short—which, taken in conjunction with his extra hairy ears and his stumpy tail, gave him a strong resemblance to a young lynx. The good midwife’s clients, who not infrequently suffered from the most frightful delusions, often mistook him for one in their excited state of mind....

Many an idle evening in the cottage by the cross-road did the still pretty spinster sit in cosy companionship with the kitten, thinking over her life’s secret. Should she have married Thorkild Skov after all—he was now a well-to-do butcher? Or Frederik Hansen—he was now owner of Hill Farm? Or ... ah, she had had so many wooers once upon a time!

No, no, she thought, jumping up restlessly—far better off as she was! All that terrible fuss over the arrival of each little citizen into the world, with which she had been in such close contact since her early girlhood, had quite frightened her.

She sat down again and fell into deep thought, her hand gently stroking “Terror’s” soft fur, as he lay purring on the sofa at her side....

And yet—she sighed deeply—and yet, she wished in spite of all that she had not been so afraid of life!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GREY PUSS’ FUTURE

The late autumn showers were beginning.... Heavy, violet-blue clouds swollen with moisture drifted about—and often two rainbows stood simultaneously one behind the other in the sky.

Grey Puss could no longer forage in the fields—it was wet and muddy everywhere.

The wretched wild bees, whose earth-hive she had dug up, hastened to cover their remnants of honey with layers of moss....

The chirp of grasshoppers and the buzzing of mosquitoes no longer filled the night air; unquiet and discomfort reigned in their stead. The cows mooed for shelter and the young cattle coughed and sneezed with cold—whilst the bulls in the meadows boomed deeply and mournfully.

The fields became more and more deserted, and the ditches and hedges more muddy and bare; only the shelter in the lee of the rising stacks grew and grew.

Mice were also scarce! The lucky ones had completed the miraculous journey with the wagon, hidden in the middle of the sheaves, after having successfully evaded the eagerly sniffing noses of the farm dogs. The others were now emigrating towards the big “human” dwellings.... They scented the warm, heavy odour from the stacks and followed in the wake of the corn.

And Grey Puss followed in the wake of the mice; and came each evening a little nearer to the farm ... the dear old farm with its dry beams and warm, quiet barns.

She longs to move among the cobwebs in the loft once more, to hear the everlasting rushing of the wind through its thatch. Most of all she thinks of the pot-bellied, piebald tomcat, whose drawling, wailing love-song seems to her irresistibly alluring. With every day that passes she seems to hear his pleading voice more and more plainly, and she sees him in her mind’s eye with his restless, swinging tail and his wild, burning eyes....

One October evening, when all colours have withered from the marshes and the deep, black shadows along the tufted banks make the water gleam still more brightly, Grey Puss slinks home through the fields towards Hill Farm.

All day the long waggons have rocked their loads of yellow turnips along to the shelter of the poplars, where the turnip-heaps grow in size and number.

She watches the tame cats sit in ambush at the foot of the stacks. They have only to sit there and doze, and the mice, which are not yet accustomed to their elevated residence, will tumble down on their heads.

Listen! The children are singing in the farm.... “Three blind mice; see how they run.”... Dear little children, who used so often to play with her when she was a tiny kitten in the house, and give her sweet milk to drink!

But now the dog is barking ... a new Box probably—one she has not yet seen. And clogs clatter suddenly on the bridge—no, no, she can not, she dare not—she must go out to the fields again....

But she longs....

In the turf-house loft, as well as in the burial-mound, and down in the willow bole—where she has also paid a visit—all is cold and lonely and full of damp and discomfort.

She longs for the spacious, broken-down farm loft, where the moss-covered thatch clings to the broad, low chimney-stacks; where the clay-lined walls are warping and the small-paned windows hang askew.

There is her real home, the home of her race....

The new farm-buildings, where bricks replace clay and wood, don’t attract her; they are much too cold, and too clean! No; where there are hatchways instead of doors, hooks instead of locks, pegs and staples instead of keys, that is where she feels at home. She can always be relied upon to find her way in through some split in the roof, some air-hole in the wall....

And the “cunning ones”? Oh, perhaps it would not be so bad to live among them again, after all!

Yet another week she hesitates on the threshold—then one afternoon her longing for the room, with all its sweet memories of kittenhood, overwhelms her....

A storm raged over the fields! It swept hissing along the shaggy ditches and writhed screaming and whistling through hedge and fence.

At one moment whitish-grey, swollen masses of cloud came pouring like a flood of liquid lead across the sky, to fling down a shower of seething rain ... at another the clouds split and parted, and the sun created heaven out of chaos: a strip of blue appeared, a stream of dazzling light—and the earth broke into a smile of joy!

For one short minute the farm’s white gables and moss-green roofs with their frame of yellow poplar-tops sprang into life and colour....

Then the picture broke, shattered into a thousand fragments; the white gable, the whole farm, sank into the ground—and once more the rain fell in torrents.

A storm raged over the fields; all creatures fled for shelter—and Grey Puss had to hie her to the willow bole.

She shivered as she sat there with eyes half-closed and tail curled round her paws.... She was day-dreaming: it is early spring, and she lies in the shelter of the kitchen garden, sunning herself and rolling to and fro on the warm ground. Suddenly her old prize-fighter is sitting before her! She goes crazy with delight, and rolls with still greater abandon from side to side on her back.

He sits before her ready to spring....

A new, violent shower drummed on the old willow bole’s withered bark and tore her from her dreams. Wet spray from the raindrops splashed in her eyes....

She had never been a mother to kittens ... she had never had a grudge against the “cunning ones!” She thus deadens her conscience, for she is drawn irresistibly to the place where she was born and bred—to the shelter of the stall, the barn, or at a pinch, the roof.

That evening a red, flaming shaft of sunlight pierces the ragged horizon. Long, black wisps of cloud hang across the heavens and draw a veil over the frost-moon’s cold, curved sickle.

At midnight she makes her return to the farm, following the familiar path over the pigsty roof, through the trap-door, and up into the loft over the cow-stall. She feels the warm air enfold her; the sweet, delicious odour of hay and fresh, dry straw meets her nostrils. The soothing chewing of the cows sounds beneath her....

There comes a rustling in the straw—and the multicoloured he-cat steps forward and greets her with every sign of delight. He springs towards her and strokes his cheek lovingly along her side right from her neck to her tail.... She is welcome to the farm; she is home!

As she gazes at him, it seems suddenly as if the whole kitten flock is standing before her.

She sees them all in him: Black’s temper, Tiny’s fur, Big’s strength, and White’s cunning. Like Grey, he is patient and shrewd; and fully as reckless, if not so active, as Red.

“Auw-auw ... ooh ... uuh!”

And she fell in love with him once more—the dear, old spotted darling!

Transcriber’s Notes

Standardized hyphenation to the dominant style used within the book.

Spelling, punctuation, accents, and grammar have been preserved as printed in the original publication except as follows:

1. Page 35: Changed pronoun from “she” to “he” referring to Tiny: “That he had not long ago been crushed to death by the others must remain an insoluble mystery!”

2. Page 54: Changed . to , after “of course”: “He must be carried, of course, ... and the problem is to find a hold which will not destroy the creature.”

3. Page 75: Changed the word “breath” to “breathe” in this phrase: “she still finds a little air to breathe”.

4. Page 87: Changed the word “mowing” to “mewing” in this phrase: “Tears of pain spring to his eyes as he recoils, mewing piteously”.

5. Page 104: Changed “it” to “if” in this phrase: “his victim sat waiting as if put there for him by the Creator”.

6. Page 122: Changed “Big-puss” to “Big Puss” for consistency as used throughout the book.

7. Page 145: Changed the word “occurence” to “occurrence” in this phrase: “Grey Puss pondered a while over the occurrence”.

8. Page 171: Changed “his” to “this” in this sentence: “Black, however, knows nothing of this.”

9. Page 183: Removed duplicate “for” from this phrase: “fled for his life.”

10. Page 195: Changed ending quotation of “Madness’ to “Madness” for consistency with other names.

11. Page 201: Changed pronoun from “his” to “her” referring to red kitten: “with the pork chop in her jaws.”

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Table of Contents

- KITTENS
- Kittens: A Family Chronicle
- CONTENTS
- KITTENS
- FOREWORD

- CHAPTER ONE

- GREY PUSS
- THE WILLOW STUMPS
- THE KITTENS
- GREY PUSS AND HER PAST

- CHAPTER TWO

- THE BLIND SEE
- THE FATHER
- THE PIEBALD DEVIL
- THE RESCUE OF TINY
- THE FLIGHT FROM THE WILLOW

- CHAPTER THREE

- THE BURIAL-MOUND
- LIFE IN THE BURIAL-MOUND
- THE FIRST MOUSE
- THE THIEF
- DROWN THE BRUTE
- A GREAT RECEPTION

- CHAPTER FOUR

- THE TRICKSTER
- THE LID OF THE WELL
- THE DRAGON-FLY
- THE OLD CROW

- CHAPTER FIVE

- BIG-KITTEN
- THE CONQUEROR
- BLACK-KITTEN
- MIAUW-MIAUW—MIAUW-MIAUW
- GREY-KITTEN

- CHAPTER SIX

- WHITE-KITTEN
- TINY
- RED-KITTEN
- THE GREAT EATING-HOUSE

- CHAPTER SEVEN

- BOX
- CATS OF ALL COLOURS
- THE LIFE-SAVING CHAIR
- THE CROW AGAIN

- CHAPTER EIGHT

- THE KITTENS GO OUT HUNTING

- THE ATTACK ON THE CROW’S NEST

- CHAPTER NINE

- THE CANARY
- BOX AND THE RED COMMUNIST
- THE SMOKE-DOG

- CHAPTER TEN

- THE BEST CAT
- “MADNESS” AND THE OWL
- THE HANGER-ON
- GREY ON THE WARPATH
- THE THIEF-CAT
- WHITE-KITTEN AND THE CALF

- CHAPTER ELEVEN

- THE KITTENS HUNT BY NIGHT
- THE DEATH OF BOX
- HOME-SICKNESS

- CHAPTER TWELVE

- THE DEMON MOUSER
- EXIT RED
- BIG-KITTEN TURNS WILD CAT
- THE HOME OF THE FISHERMAN
- BLACK JOINS THE ARMY
- “TERROR” TURNS HOUSE-CAT

- CHAPTER THIRTEEN

- GREY PUSS’ FUTURE

- Transcriber’s Notes

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE